Picking Up Again
by TheFaultIsInOurselves
Summary: For someone who had once died, Sherlock Holmes was surprisingly alive. (Sherlock/OC) [Sequel to The People Left Behind]
1. Chapter 1

Those few moments after that were a bit of a blur, if he was being honest. Somepne breathed, 'Jesus Christ,' and he realised it was him, and he felt himself being guided to a chair and then Evie was kneeling next to him, concern written across her face. She cast a look at Sherlock (s_herlock sherlock sherlock sherlock) _and her tender expression turned into a scowl.

'Jesus fucking Christ,' John repeated. 'This is it. I've gone mad. I'm hallucinating.'

'I can assure you,' Sherlock said, stepping toward John, but Evie's murderous look prevented him from coming closer, 'That I am here, and I am alive.'

'You're not crazy,' Evie murmured. 'He's here.'

'Right, yeah, okay,' John nodded, then launched himself at the taller man. Both men fell to the ground in a mess of limbs, John getting his arms around Sherlock's neck. The consulting detective didn't seem to be fighting back, but still he tugged at John's arm, trying to get a breath in.

'John,' he wheezed, 'while I understand that you have every right to be mad, I feel it's important to remember that there is a sniper ready to-'

'SIXTEEN MONTHS,' John bellowed. Sherlock wormed free, and John grabbed his shoulder, turning him around and swinging his fist at the other man's face. Sherlock reeled from the hit, and John lifted his fist to strike again, but didn't follow through with the motion – his tightly clenched fist wavered in the air. He was shaking.

'Hey,' Evie said, scrambling across the flat, and grabbing Johns arm, trying to pull him away. 'Come on, John. That's enough.'

John dropped Sherlock, and shook off Evie. He paced the flat angrily, wiping his hands across his face and muttering to himself. Both his friends watched on.

Eventually, he stopped. He jabbed his finger at Sherlock. 'You were dead,' he said, voice strangled as though he were the one that was choked and not vice versa. 'I saw you. You were – on the ground, you were on the ground -' he stopped talking, pointed finger turning into a fist. '_How_,' he demanded.

'Molly-'

'So Molly knew?' John cried. '_Molly_ got to know that you were alive, but I couldn't?'

'She-'

'Who else knew? Lestrade? _Mycroft?_'

'Mycroft suspected.' He cast his gaze toward Evie, and she wanted to shrink away. 'As did Miss Blackwood here.'

John turned to her, his expression incredulous.

'_Evie?_'

She shot a filthy look toward Holmes, then returned her attention to John. 'Mycroft shared his... suspicions with me,' she explained.

'_And you didn't tell me?_'

'I couldn't!' She reached out to touch him but he took a step back. 'At the time, Mycroft had absolutely no proof. He wasn't sure, himself, if Sherlock was alive or not. It was just blind hope! He left it up to me, whether or not to tell you and-'

'And you didn't,' John finished, disbelief and betrayal evident in his eyes. 'You found out my best friend might be alive and you didn't tell me.'

'But what if Mycroft had been wrong, John?' She pled. 'You were happy! I didn't – You were,' she faltered, then powered through. 'I couldn't let you throw away everything you'd worked so hard for on the off chance that Sherlock was alive!'

'_THAT WASN'T YOUR DECISION TO MAKE!' _John roared. Evie recoiled.

'Please,' she said, voice shaking but trying to sound soothing, 'I was just trying to do what I thought was best-'

'Nobody asked you to,' he snarled. The doctor turned his back on them, heading toward the door without looking back.

'John - ' Sherlock called after him, ready to pursue him to the front door at least, but a small hand on his elbow stopped him. Evie flinched at the slamming of the door, her expression very, very sad.

'Just give him time,' she said, voice small. 'He'll come back when he's had time to think.' She disappeared into the kitchen, and he sat.

'I don't understand,' he muttered to himself, hunching over, and resting his chin on his steepled hands. He didn't intend for Evie to hear, but she caught his words as she reentered the room.

'He doesn't, either,' she responded. She had an ice bag in her hand. She offered it to him, but he made no move to take it. Sighing, she sat next to him and pressed the ice gently against his already swelling eye. He didn't move away – he didn't acknowledge her at all.

'Why'd you do it?' She asked.

'I fail to see how that concerns you,' he drawled. Her grip on the bag tightened and she removed it from his face.

'Of course it concerns me,' she argued. 'John's my friend.'

She could practically feel the irritation radiating off him. He tilted his head toward her, eyes flashing.

'I want to know why you did it,' she insisted, anger building. The ice pack landed with a _thunk_ on the coffee table. 'I need to know.'

'Why?'

'Because I need to know _why_ you would put your best friend through sixteen months of hell!'

'It's none of your business,' he moved away from the lounge, and Evie followed.

'It _is_ my business!' She fumed. 'You made it my business when you decided to pretend to kill yourself! You made it my business when you left him for dead!_' _The way his eyes hardened and his muscles tensed told her she'd stepped on a nerve, but instead of treading cautiously as she should have, she kept going. '_You weren't there_,' she had to refrain from screaming. 'You weren't there to see how much it _killed_ John, knowing that his best friend was dead, and knowing that he couldn't _do a Goddamn thing about it_. You weren't there to watch him sink further and further into depression, you weren't there to see how scared and sad and lonely he was! _I was_. _I_ was the one who picked him up, _I_ was the one who put him back together, after _you_ broke him!'

'Ah.' His icy eyes appraised her, looking her up and down. She hadn't thought it possible to hate someone you had only just met, but Sherlock seemed to have achieved it toward her. 'This is about your brother.'

'What? How did you - '

'Know about your brother, who killed himself after almost destroying your father's business? Simple, really, but let's not get into that. You _need_ to know, as you said, why I faked my suicide, because you are trying to understand why your own brother would kill himself and leave you – how did you put it? _Scared, sad and lonely_.' She gaped at him as he spat out acidic words. 'Now, do us both a favour and stop projecting your pathetic misplaced anger onto me. The situations are incomparable – your brother killed himself because he was _weak_, and I "killed" myself because it was the only way to keep _John_ alive!'

The words hung in the air between them. She took in a deep breath. Clenched her fist. Narrowed her eyes.

'Get out.'

He blinked.

'_Get out_,' she snarled.

'You _do_ understand that there is a murderer waiting to kill me out there?'

'Go upstairs!'

'John left the curtains open.'

'I don't care.' He opened his mouth, but she didn't give him the chance. '_I don't care_. Get out of my flat.'

His demeanour was unbelievably cold as he swept past her. She listened closely, but didn't hear the second opening and closing of a door and gathered that he was hiding in the hallway. Shaking with anger and blinking away tears, she tried to make herself some tea, but after first spilling the water across the counter and then discovering she was out of bags, she hurled her mug against the floor. It shattered into a hundred tiny porcelain fragments.

Swearing up a storm, she fetched a broom and swept it up.

* * *

**It isn't the reunion Sherlock imagined.**

**But welcome to the sequel.**

**Thank you for reading.**

**-J**


	2. Chapter 2

She heard John return, an hour later. Soft voices drifted through the walls, but she didn't strain to hear. She just lay on her bed, her arm thrown across her eyes, knowing that John and Sherlock would soon return to her flat and wishing that they wouldn't.

There was a soft knocking at her door.

'Evie?'

She rolled over in bed.

'Evie?'

She heard Sherlock mutter something, and John replying.

Knocking again. 'Evie, can we come in? I'm sorry for what I said. I wasn't thinking straight.'

He muttered something to Sherlock, and the ex-dead man replied with a firm _no_.

'Sherlock's sorry too,' John apologised in place of the detective.

Evie sat up, rubbing her eyes. She dragged herself from bed and opened the door, stepping aside to let them in. John smiled gratefully. Sherlock walked past.

'What do you need?' She asked tiredly.

'Evie, I'm-'

'Sebastian Moran,' Sherlock interrupted, pressing himself to the wall beside the window, trying to get a peek at the house across the street through the curtains without being seen.

'Who?'

Irritation crossed his face. 'Moriarty's second in command. He's determined to kill me as payback for causing the death of his boss, though I would say that I am entirely blameless, wouldn't you?'

She didn't bother replying.

'The house across has recently been redone,' Sherlock continued, 'and is currently empty. Auctions begin next week. It's a perfect vantage point.'

'You're saying that this Moran is going to try and shoot you through the window, from the house across the street?'

'Yes.'

'Of course,' she sighed. 'So, what are we supposed to do about that?'

Sherlock turned to John. 'Ready for some danger?'

His best friend grinned. 'God, yes.'

He smiled. 'Excellent. Now, does Mr Hudson still have her dressmakers mannequin?'

* * *

Evie sat on her kitchen table, staring at the wooden pole before her. It was dangling from a hole that Sherlock had smashed in _her roof_, connected to a mannequin dressed up like Sherlock. As far as plans went, it seemed quite ridiculous to her, but still she sat, staring at that pole, ready to jiggle it about to give the Sherlock-doll life.

John had gone upstairs, acted tired, and closed the curtains to the flat. Then, they'd erected the mannequin and disguised it as Sherlock. John would open the curtains, act surprised that Sherlock was there, and then, hopefully, Moran would fire his shot from the building across the road. Immediately proceeding this gunfire, Sherlock, who had snuck into the building opposite, would subdue Moran, and John would phone Lestrade. This was all assuming that Moran was too preoccupied with shooting fake Sherlock to notice the approach of real Sherlock, and that fake Sherlock's head wouldn't fall of prematurely.

Her phone buzzed. It was a message from John.

_Going live_. _-JW_

She grabbed the pole and jiggled it about. Not too extravagantly, she had been told, but only just enough. Realistically. Sherlock had stressed this point incessantly until she had snapped and told him she was more than capable of wriggling a mannequin _realistically_, and he should stop being such an annoying dic-

_BANG._

Gunshot. Shattering glass. The sound from above of both the mannequin and John hitting the ground. The pole jerked out of her hands violently, smacking her in the chin, and knocking her off the table.

Then silence. All the motion had been compacted into about three seconds, and now there was nothing but eerie, frightening silence, ringing forebodingly through the building.

A list of scenarios chased logic out of her head. What if something had gone wrong? If Sherlock had not been able to take down Moran? What if Moran had chosen to shoot John instead? What if John was lying on the floor of 221b, already quite dead? Or if Sherlock was dead _again?_ Oh John. Oh, poor, poor John-

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs when she heard Johns voice, strong and alive, floating down toward her.

'Lestrade, you need to get to Baker Street now,' he said into his phone. 'We caught Moran.' He listened for a reply. 'And Sherlock's back.'

* * *

Lestrade picked through the wreck of 221b Baker Street. His men were already clearing out, having found all they could from here and the empty house across the road. Moran was in custody. That Blackwood girl had already begun sweeping up the glass. John and Sherlock stood separate from it all, talking and occasionally laughing. They glanced up as he approached.

'Detective Inspector,' Sherlock greeted.

'Sherlock Holmes,' Lestrade breathed. 'Good God. You're alive.'

'So it appears.'

He ran a hand through his greying hair. 'And you've destroyed all of Moriarty's men.'

'Yes.'

He couldn't help but laugh.

'I heard you got demoted,' Sherlock said, appearing as uncomfortable as Sherlock could possibly appear. Lestrade raised his eyebrows. 'After the, uh-'

'After you died? Well, yeah. You can't let a crazy fake genius in on your cases and not get punished, apparently.' He smiled. 'But those tips you called in didn't hurt.'

'You knew that was-'

'I had a hunch. Who else would it be?'

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably. 'Well... apologies, anyway. For the trouble,' he said. Lestrade's eyebrows climbed higher.

'I'm sure I'll get promoted back to my old position quite quickly, now that you're alive again,' he chuckled.

'Most likely.'

He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. 'Now get some sleep,' he instructed. 'And for God's sake, eat something. You look like a strong breeze could snap you in half.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something scathing, but swallowed the insult.

'Of course, Detective Inspector,' he said instead.

Evie dumped the last panful of broken glass into the bin, and wiped her forehead, looking round the flat to see if everything was done. She'd stripped the mannequin, and put it in a corner of Mrs Hudson's flat, a gaping hole in it's chest. She didn't know if Mrs Hudson would still want it or not, so she thought she'd keep it until the landlady returned from her adventuring. There was still a hole in the floor, but there wasn't much she could do about that until she found time to pop by the hardware store and pick up something to fix it.

She checked her phone for the time, only to find it was already one in the morning. The officers had only cleared out about forty minutes ago, and it had taken her ages to try and get the glass shards out of the carpet, and to tape some cardboard over the empty window frame to keep out the cold. She stretched the kinks out her back.

'I'm going to go to bed,' she said, 'We've got to pick up Mrs Hudson from the airport tomorrow...'

She trailed off when she realised nobody was listening to her. John and Sherlock were talking. They'd been talking since the whole debacle had been over. To be fair, they had a lot to talk about. But still...

'Good night,' she said. Neither man looked up, so she just left.

* * *

She missed her brother.


	3. Chapter 3

'Oh, Evie dear, what's happened to your chin?'

She covered the fat bruise on her face self consciously. 'Just an accident,' she explained. 'Is it that noticeable?'

'No, of course not.'

Evie smiled and gave Mrs Hudson a hug. 'Welcome back to dreary London, Mrs Hudson,' she said. 'How was your trip?'

'Oh, it was wonderful, Evie,' Mrs Hudson sighed. 'Though I did miss the house. Is it okay? Everything still in one piece?'

'Except one window.'

'What?'

'This way, the cabs waiting.'

Evie took the elderly woman's bags and lead her to the idling car by the curb.

'Is John waiting in there?'

Evie signalled for the driver to pop the boot and placed the luggage in the cab. 'He couldn't come,' she said. 'He was... busy.'

'Oh, is it this Mary girl I've been hearing about?'

'No, it's something more... unexpected.'

The drive back was peaceful. Mrs Hudson relayed her adventures to Evie telling her about the places she'd been, the things she'd seen, the music she'd heard and food she'd eaten. She was still chattering about her journeys when the cab pulled up outside 221, and Evie got the luggage from the boot.

Before they walked in the door, Evie turned to the landlady.

'So, how are you feeling, Mrs Hudson?' She asked. 'In terms of health?'

'Strong as an ox, my dear.'

'Excellent.'

She opened the door and set the bags down in the hallway.

'Wait here-' she began, but was cut off.

'Ah, Mrs Hudson. Wonderful to see you again.'

A small whimper escaped the old woman, and she put her fingers to her lips in shock. Her eyes began to water, and Evie reached out to steady her.

'Sh-sherlock,' she said, holding out her arms, and he walked into them, returning the embrace. When they parted, Mrs Hudson was dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and fanning her face with her hand.

'Oh, Sherlock,' she said, 'Sherlock. What have you done?'

'Diffused an internationally recognised network of murderers,' Sherlock answered.

'Oh, of course you have.' She blew her nose and took in a deep breath to calm herself. 'Where's John?'

'Here,' the doctor replied, descending the stairs to give the woman a hug. 'Did you have a good time?'

'Oh, yes, yes, I've got some pictures and some souvenirs...' She lead them to her apartment, flicking on the light.

'Hang on. What've you done to my bloody mannequin?'

* * *

John came down to her flat a few hours later. She had been feeling the lovely silk scarf Mrs Hudson had gotten her from India, when there was a knock at the door. Three brisk taps and then silence: John.

'What happened to your chin?' He asked as she let him in.

She poked the bruise gently. 'Backlash,' she told him, 'from when the mannequin was shot.'

'Oh,' he looked uncomfortable. 'Sorry.'

'It's okay. D'you want some tea?'

'No, I'm good.'

'Excellent, because I just remember that I'm all out.'

He smiled at her, and she returned the expression as she sat. 'Where's Sherlock?'

'He's gone to St Bart's to get some body parts for more experiments.'

'Charming.'

John shifted where he stood. 'I'm sorry,' he blurted.

'For what?'

'For forgetting about Mrs Hudson,' he said, haltingly. 'And for... yesterday. When Sherlock arrived and I – I wasn't, really... nice.'

'It's alright, John.'

'No, it's not. I was being a prick. You don't deserve to be treated like that.'

'Well, maybe we're even now,' she reasoned. 'I've yelled at you, and now you've yelled at me. Clean slate.'

He sat down on one of her kitchen chairs. 'Alright. Good.'

'So, I take it you're not going to move in with Mary next week?'

'Well, I, uh,' he swallowed, 'I haven't told Sherlock yet.'

'He wouldn't take it well?'

'Well, he just came back from the dead. Moving out now seems... insensitive.'

'Because Sherlock seems _so_ sensitive.'

John looked away awkwardly. 'Look,' he started, 'I know you didn't have the greatest first impression of Sherlock, but give him a chance. He's not that bad.'

'Really? Because he seems pretty bad to me.'

'Just be patient with him. Can you do that for me?'

She blew a strand of hair out of her face and rolled her eyes. 'Fine,' she agreed, 'I'll try. But just for you.'

He winked. 'That's my girl.'

Laughing, she threw a pillow at him.

* * *

He hadn't walked the halls of Bart's in a long time. The building itself had barely change - every twist and turn of the corridors familiar, the storage system of the chemicals as always. What _had_ changed, was the way that the employees looked at him – with open mouthed, undiluted shock.

'Welcome back to the land of the living, Sherlock.'

'Mycroft. How's the diet?'

'Extraordinary.'

Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope. 'You're not going to say that you _missed_ me, are you?'

'Certainly not. I'm just here to offer a little friendly advice.'

'Is it mandatory?'

'I think you'll want to hear it.'

Sherlock didn't reply, and Mycroft took this as a sign to continue.

'Don't alienate that Blackwood girl, Sherlock,' he said. 'She could be very useful. You'll gain nothing by being cruel to her.'

'Are you suggesting I trust her?'

'Certainly not. She was always one to benefit herself first, before all others. I doubt that has changed, despite her claims otherwise.' He regarded his younger brother. 'You know who her father was, I don't doubt.'

He switched the slides beneath the equipment. 'Is that all?'

'One more thing - Be prepared for the media storm ahead.'

* * *

**Apologies for the delay in this chapter; I've had troubles getting ffnet to load. Is anyone else having this problem?**

**Anyway, I will upload another chapter today to make up for it.**

**-J**


	4. Chapter 4

At five o'clock, Evie's alarm went off.

At five-oh-five, it went off again.

And again, at five ten.

At quarter past, Evie rolled out of bed. She made herself a coffee, brushed her teeth. Half past saw her braiding her hair, and she'd gotten changed and done her make up by twenty to. Before she left, she heard the sounds of John waking up to begin his morning ritual – coffee, shower, picking up some clothes form the floor, sniff testing them, approving them, and leaving 221 by six thirty. Everything following routine.

What didn't follow routine, however, was the wall of noise and light as she opened the front door. She squinted, blinded by the camera flashes and unable to discern a single voice amongst the mass. People thrust microphones and recorders at her, all clambering for her attention. _Is it true Sherlock Holmes is alive? What was the gunshot heard here last night? Who are you? Are you Watson's girlfriend? Are you Sherlock's girlfriend-_

She was pulled inside by the back of her shirt and someone reached over her to shut the door against the tangle of happenings outside.

'So the vultures have descended,' Sherlock noted.

'God,' Evie breathed. 'Is it going to be like that every single time I want to leave the apartment?'

'Of course not.'

She sighed in relief.

'It will also occur anytime you try and _enter_ the building as well.'

She groaned. 'Great,' she muttered. 'I assume this is because of your resurrection?'

'It's not a resurrection. I was never dead.'

'Right,' she muttered. 'Of course.' She peeked through the blinds to the mob of reporters outside. 'How am I supposed to get to work now?' She lamented.

He turned away from her and walked down the hall. 'This way,' he ordered. She rolled her eyes and followed him to the back door.

221, like all other houses on the street, had a small back garden. Well, garden would be quite a generous name for what it was – a tiny patch of scraggly grass, blocked from the sun by surrounding buildings and enclosed by high fences to keep out snooping neighbours. Sherlock stopped by the back wall, and looked at Evie.

'What am I supposed to do?' She asked. 'Scale it?'

'Yes.'

'I can't reach the top.'

He bent his knees and linked his fingers together.

'You're joking.'

'Well,' he said impatiently, giving her _that look_, one she had already become accustomed to since making his acquaintance barely two days before – that contemptuous _ordinary people_ look. 'It's either this or you can brave the media out front. I daresay that wall would be friendlier company.'

She scowled, but placed her foot in his hands nonetheless. 'Fine,' she grumbled, tossing her bag over the wall, 'but eyes front.'

He gave her _the look_ again, and hoisted her up so she could get a strong grip on the top of the wall and pull herself over. She landed ungraciously on the other side, with a thump and a loud '_oof'._

Straightening her blouse, she called back over the wall.

'Thanks, Sherlock.' She dusted off her bag and swung it on her shoulder. 'Listen,' she continued, 'I know that we got off on the wrong foot yesterday and things were kind of tense. I did take out my... frustrations with my brother out on you, even though our situations were different. But I think you took it too far, too.' She gave him a moment, to see if he would apologise. He didn't, so she went on. 'Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry for being out of line yesterday, and I think that we should try harder to get along because John is important to us both and I know neither of us want to make him unhappy.'

There was only silence from the other side of the wall.

'Right,' she muttered. 'He went back inside.'

The dirt of the unpaved path crunched beneath her feet as she walked away. Sherlock stood upright, dusted the dirt from his shoulder and returned to the house.

* * *

She tried to make it back over the wall, she really did, but her physical strength had always left something to be desired. Even though she could get her fingers hooked over the edge, she had nowhere near enough upper body power to pull herself up and over. Grumbling to herself, she rounded the block again, hoping that maybe the reporters had gone.

They hadn't. It seemed that as soon as she rounded the corner, some sixth sense unique to journalists alerted them to her presence. They flocked to her like seagulls to a solitary chip, and she batted away the microphones thrust at her face and squinted in the glare of her cameras.

'What's your name?' One asked. She kept her head low and forged on ahead.

'What do you know about the return of Sherlock Holmes?'

'Are you romantically involved with John Watson?'

'Are you involved with_ Sherlock Holmes_?'

She had almost reached the door. She fumbled for her key, bring pressed against at all sides by eager paparazzi. She managed to get it in the lock, open the door and slam it behind her. Safely on the other side, she heaved a huge sigh.

'You came in through the front door.'

She jumped, not having seen Sherlock standing at the bottom of the stairs.

'Yeah,' she breathed, pulling herself off the wall. 'I couldn't pull myself over the wall.' She shrugged off her coat and hung it over her arm. 'Is John home?'

'Not yet.'

'Good.' She stood awkwardly. It was easy enough to talk to him on either sides of a thick brick wall, where she couldn't be seen in all her uncomfortable glory, but a lot harder when they were standing a mere five feet from each other.

'Would you like to come in for a bite to eat?' She blurted.

'I'm not hungry,' he deadpanned.

'Right.' She shifted on her feet. 'Some tea then?'

He swept past her, through the door she had just unlocked. 'Coffee,' he said, 'black, two sugars.'

She pursed her lips, lest she say anything unpleasant and start another fight. She filled the kettle and switched it on, watching him from the other side of her kitchen counter as he demonstrated a complete disregard for her furniture, putting his feet onto her coffee table.

'Right,' she muttered. She entered her bedroom, picked up the object she was looking for, and returned. His eyes followed her as she crossed the room, coming to stand before him.

'Here,' she held it out to him. He snatched it from her hands, placing it on his lap and unclipping the case.

'I've been taking care of it,' she told him. 'Played regularly. The strings were replaced a few weeks ago, and some new rosin in the case, too.'

He took it into his hands, studying it with a critical eye. He ran a finger along the varnished wood, plucked the A string and his lips tightened. _I can't keep it perfectly tuned every second of the Goddamn day,_ she wanted to say, but she forced herself silent. After an inspection of the bow, he put the instrument away without a word, and Evie gathered that her violin-sitting job had been satisfactory.

'Classically trained,' he said, in a way that was not so much a question as a statement.

'Yes,' she answered. The kettle came to a boil and she returned to the kitchen. She flicked it off, and opened her cupboards to get a mug. She was going to grab a plain blue one, but she thought about how Sherlock had _demanded _the coffee, rather then asked, and her hand swerved to collect a mug on which a pink kitten with a bow on it's head was depicted saying the words "_Purr-fect coffee!"_ She put in the instant coffee, added the water, and then stirred in the sugar.

When she offered it to him, he didn't comment on the kitten mug, instead accepting without thanks. She sat down opposite, him on the lounge, and she on one of her kitchen chairs, straddling the back and using it as a platform to rest her folded arms.

'Okay,' she started, 'I'm sorry that I was so rude yesterday. You were right, I did take out some of my problems with my brother on you. The situations were incomparable. But I also think you were kind of rude to me, too.'

'If you've brought me in here to babble about your feelings, then I have better things to do with my time,' he droned.

She took in a deep breath and grit her teeth. 'Okay then,' she said, 'message received. Put it behind us. But I wanted to talk to you about John.'

'What about him?' The irritation he was expressing was almost palpable. 'The fact that he's now got himself an apparently steady girlfriend?'

'I thought he hadn't told you yet-'

'He didn't _need _to tell me. I saw. The amount of care he puts into his appearance, his cologne, how frequently he checks his phone, all suggest that he's now in a serious relationship. In addition to that, there is a tooth brush in the bathroom that belong to neither of us, a woman's hair in the drain and a coffee mug with flowers on it in the cupboard, along with Chinese tea. We both know John drinks mainly black tea, more specifically Earl Grey.'

'His cologne?'

'Yes,' he sighed in impatience, 'it's repugnant. John would never buy himself anything like that. It was a gift. He wears it to please Miss Morstan.'

She couldn't help but be impressed. 'How did you know her name?'

'She left a few of her books in the flat. One of them, Julius Caesar, annotated by hand. A book, part of the syllabus for the A-Levels. A teacher, is she not?'

Evie let out a low whistle. 'John was right,' she said. 'You _are_ brilliant.' She shook her head. 'But I didn't want to talk to you about Mary. Well, I did. Kind of.' He watched her, unmoving. 'Sherlock, while you were gone, it was really difficult for John to move on. It took him a long time to mourn. But in the past few months, he's really started to get on with his life.'

'Is there a point to this?' The consulting detective drawled.

'Yes, there is. The point I'm trying to make, is that you can't just come back all of a sudden and expect to just slip back into your old life, like nothing has changed. You can't pick John up like he's some book you put down, like he's faithfully held your page and waited for you to reappear so his life can resume. He's changed, his life has changed and... well, you can't ask him to throw it all away so that you two can go back to dashing around London solving crimes.'

'Well,' Sherlock said, placing his untouched coffee onto the table and standing, 'if you're done forcing your opinion onto the world, then I'll be off.'

She sighed in exasperation, 'Sherlock-' She tried, but he'd already left her apartment. She abandoned her own tea and went to the door. 'Sherlock, wait.'

He did so.

'He was faithful,' she said. 'He'll never tell you this, so I will. He never believed you were a fraud, even if the whole world did. He really cares for you. You're his best friend. Just... don't forget that.'


	5. Chapter 5

John had been distant lately.

With good cause, Mary knew – his best friend had suddenly returned from the dead. She understood why he'd wanted to push back the move date, why he hadn't really called. But what did concern her was the fact that he was so reluctant to introduce her to Sherlock Holmes.

She knew for a fact that he'd never had a steady girlfriend while Sherlock was alive; he'd admitted as much himself, saying that Sherlock had been a handful, and their lives were dangerous. So she was worried that he would break off their nine month relationship now for the same reasons. She was well and truly in love with John; she didn't think she'd take it very well if he dumped her.

So she decided to take matters into her own hands. It had been a week since Sherlock's return, and she hadn't seen John once, and barely talked to him or texted him at all. The media outside 221 Baker Street she had not accounted for; she'd gone for coffee with Evie a few days ago, and the woman had bemoaned the pushy paparazzi outside her home, saying that the press conference Detective Inspector Lestrade had held had done nothing to deter the nosy journalists.

'Mary?

Speak of the Devil – Mary turned to spot Evie further down the road. The young woman was holding a bag of groceries, and waved her over. Mary walked over to join her.

'Evie,' Mary said relieved. 'Thank God you're here. I was trying to figure out how to get past the journalists. '

'Oh, yeah,' she winced, 'don't want to mix with those. Follow me, there's another way in.'

She lead Mary down the back, to a wall where a step ladder had been placed so that Evie could scale the barrier with ease. She went first, and then Mary passed her the groceries and followed, landing in the back garden with a thump.

'Why didn't John come to get you?' Evie asked, leading the way to the back door.

'Well, he, uh, doesn't exactly know that I'm coming.'

'So this is a surprise?'

'Well.. yeah,' she felt somewhat embarrassed. 'It's just... I've barely heard a word from him since Sherlock came back. I was just worried, I guess.' She worried her lip with her teeth. 'Do you think he's embarrassed of me?'

'Oh, God, no,' Evie laughed, and it alleviated Mary's anxiety a bit. 'More liked he's embarrassed of Sherlock.'

'Really? But John always talked about how brilliant he was.'

'Oh, Sherlock's brilliant,' Evie agreed, 'he can just be a bit... intense.'

'Oh.'

They ascended the stairs, and before Evie turned the knob to 221b, she whispered, 'Be prepared.'

Mary gave her a confused look. 'Prepared? For wha-'

But she'd already opened the door. 'Mary?' John's surprise was evident in his widened eyes and open mouth. 'What're you doing here?'

She smiled. 'I thought I'd surprise you.' She walked up to him and kissed him hello. 'I missed you.'

'Ah,' a deep voice droned, 'so _this _is Mary Morstan.'

She stepped away from John and faced the man. He had curly black hair, sharp cheekbones, cold eyes and an air of impatience about him.

'Yes,' she said, 'hello, I'm Mary.' She extended her hand. 'You must be Sherlock. It's a pleasure to meet you.'

He looked at her hand, made a _hm_ noise, and started to throw darts at the wall. Mary withdrew her hand, smiling awkwardly. She heard Evie scoff, and could imagine her rolling her eyes.

'Sherlock,' John muttered under his breath. 'Be nice.'

He spun back toward them, dropping his darts on the floor.

'Oh, I'll _try_ to be nice,' he started, and even Evie, who had known the man for only a week, knew that Sherlock had started a rant. 'As nice as Mary is here, a twelfth form english teacher who obviously loves her job and spends many hours preparing classes for her students. As nice as Mary is, who bought John that frankly _disgusting_ cologne that he obviously hates and is only wearing out of guilt. As nice as Mary is, who you were planning to move in with, John, before I so _rudely_intruded into your life. I'm sure you two are very close, and she's told you everything – even about the divorce, hm, Mary?'

Silence.

'Oh, so you _haven't_ told John you've been married before?' Sherlock's eyes glinted with a sadistic glee. 'Why, are you embarrassed by it? Well, it did end very abruptly and rather messily too, I'd imagine. What was it, was he cheating on you? My, my, that isn't very admirable, Mary, hiding something like that from your partner. I'm sure John has told you everything about himself – his problems with his family, his time in the war, his adventures with me, and, oh, that time he slept with Genevieve after drinking too much-

'Sherlock.' Evie's voice was cold and commanding. '_Stop._'

The consulting detective did so, looking breathy, but his pleased expression died when he saw John. The ex-army doctor gave his best friend the filthiest look imaginable.

John turned to Mary. 'Mary,' he said softly. 'I'm sorry. I-'

Mary let out a stifled sob. She was trying so hard not to cry. She fled the apartment, wrenching the door open and taking the stairs two at a time to get out of the house.

When she left, John turned on Sherlock.

'You happy now?' He said, looking furious.

'I-'

But John had already gone after Mary.

Evie shook her head as she made her way to the kitchen. She started to unpack the groceries, not speaking.

'You're mad too,' he observed, collecting his darts and throwing another at the wall, where the sharp tip buried into the wallpaper.

Evie didn't answer.

'I did nothing wrong,' he continued. 'I was only ensuring the integrity of the relationship-'

A cupboard door slammed shut with unnecessary violence, and Sherlock's next dart spun wide and landed by the door.

'Don't give me that bullshit,' she scowled. 'That wasn't you trying to be _helpful_. That was you trying to hurt Mary and embarrass me and John. You can brag about your intellect all you want, Sherlock, but you and I both know that you're nothing more than a petty, jealous child who's scared of being abandoned by your best friend.'

She put away the last of the food and headed for the stairs.

'Grow up,' she sighed, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

_How is she? - E_

_We've been talking. - JW_

_And? - E_

_I think we're okay. - JW_

'Your sauce is burning.'

Evie jumped, almost dropping her phone. Sherlock, she'd found, was very good at appearing out of nowhere, and even though he startled her no less than once a day, she still hadn't managed to adapt. She cursed as she hurried back to the stove, taking the saucepan off the flame and giving it a stir.

'What are you doing here Sherlock?'

He drummed his fingers on the counter.

'I need...'

She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. Sherlock grabbed the knife she had been using to chop onions.

'...this knife,' he finished.

She snorted and plucked the kitchen knife out of his hands. 'Your kitchen knife is in the block by the sink.'

'Yes, well, I need that one.'

She put the knife in the sink and put the sauce back to simmer. She checked on her pasta and found it almost ready.

'What do you _actually_ need, Sherlock?' She asked, searching her drawers for a colander.

'Nothing.'

'Then why are you in my flat?'

'I told you. I need that knife.'

She turned off the stove and drained the spaghetti. 'You need to apologise,' she instructed.

'Oh dear, no,' he droned sarcastically, 'I haven't hurt your feelings _again _have I?'

'Not to me,' she said, trying to be patient. 'To John, and to Mary.' Fetching two bowls from the cupboard, she started to dish out the food.

'I don't need your advice,' he spat.

'I know you don't,' she soothed. Checking her fridge, she found she had some parmesan left and sprinkled it atop the steaming bowls of food. 'But it won't be hard – if you do apologise, that is.'

He watched in silence, and she took it as a cue to go on.

'You say "I'm sorry for what I said. It wasn't my place to reveal those things and I apologise for the problems I've caused." And you have to mean it, too.'

She placed the food before him, and sat down, swirling her fork through the pasta. 'And give Mary a chance too,' she added. 'She's nice, and smart, and good for John.'

He surveyed the food in front of him.

'The pasta's too rubbery,' he muttered, leaving without taking a bite. She shrugged, knowing that if she put the leftovers in his fridge, they'd be gone by morning.


	6. Chapter 6

He was trying to find out how long it took for eyeballs to dry out once a person had died (assuming they departed with their eyes open) when Evie entered the flat, once again without knocking – although her announced arrivals wasn't a real issue; he could always hear her approach. She was wearing a blue dress that was a size too big, stockings, and black flats with worn soles. Lipstick and hair loose down her back, which meant she was going somewhere fancy, because she was under the impression that she looked more attractive with her hair unrestrained and normally hated wearing lipstick.

'You're not dressed yet,' she saw, voice a mixture of resignation and disappointment.

'Why would I be dressed.'

'We're going out to dinner with John and Mary, remember? We're supposed to meet them at the restaurant.'

He looked away from the head on the table. 'But John is here.'

She rolled her eyes. 'He left to pick up Mary half an hour ago. Now, get dressed. We've got to go.'

He turned his attention back to the eyeballs. 'I'm not going.'

'Yes, you are.'

'No, I'm not – what are you doing?'

She'd entered his room, and he could hear her rustling around. When he joined her at the threshold of his space, she was searching through his wardrobe. She pulled out a navy button up and some black trousers.

'Here,' she said, thrusting the clothes at him, 'put these on.'

He looked at the clothes being pressed to his chest. 'No.'

'Yes.'

'No.'

'Don't be childish.'

'I'm not being childish,' he sniffed.

'Okay, then put this on.'

He pursed his lips.

'Don't you want to apologise to Mary?'

'I don't need her _forgiveness_,' he growled.

'No, but you need John's.'

They stared each other down. Finally, Sherlock held out his hands, and she smiled and dropped the clothes into them, closing the door behind her as she left the room.

He changed quickly, and as soon as he stepped through his bedroom door, Evie spritzed cologne onto his neck. He grumbled, and she held out his coat. He slipped his arm into the sleeves. Evie smiled, buttoning up her own coat and grabbing her purse.

'Your wallet is in your pocket,' she told him. 'Anything else?'

He swiped his phone off the table and grabbed his gloves from the armchair. His scarf was hanging by the door. 'Yes. Must I go?'

'You must,' she confirmed, holding the door open. 'Now, come on, we're already going to be late.'

He lead the way down to the street, waiting on the steps as Evie said goodbye to Mrs Hudson.

'Christ,' she shivered, stepping out of the house, 'it's bloody freezing.'

It had started to snow the previous night, and had not let up all day. The dirtiness of London seemed so obvious in the snow, the fresh whiteness on the building tops contrasting with the snow on the pathways, beaten into muddy, mushy submission by the footsteps of London-goers.

She held up her hand as a cab approached, then dropped it as it drove right past. She tried again, with the same result.

'Why don't cabs ever stop for me?' She complained. Sherlock stepped out onto the road, held up his gloved hand, and the next cab slid smoothly to the side and stopped before them.

Sherlock opened the door and climbed in, Evie following. She gave the driver the address, and lay back in her seat, enjoying the heating. Sherlock stared moodily out the window.

'Are you going to sulk all night?'

'I'm _not _sulking,' he scowled.

'Right.'

The streets passed by quickly.

'He died,' Evie finally said.

'Who?'

'Mary's ex-husband. He died in a shooting.' She turned to him, and studied his carefully dispassionate face.

'I see,' he said evenly.

The rest of the trip passed in silence. They arrived at their destination, a quite well-known restaurant called The Carrington, and told the hostess that they would be joining their friends. Mary and John, both dressed suitably well to fit in with the other diners, waved them over to the table; a circular dining table covered in a long, pristine white cloth, candles lit and cutlery shining.

'Sorry we're late,' Evie apologised. 'Sherlock couldn't decide which shirt matched his eyes.'

'That's not true,' the detective argued, and only when Evie stifled a laugh did he realise she had been joking. He sat down abruptly, not pulling out Evie's chair for her as courtesy dictated, but she didn't seem to mind, managing to seat herself.

The tension at the table was palpable. Even though Evie kept the conversation going admirably, it was clear that neither John nor Mary were acknowledging Sherlock until he'd apologised for his behaviour. Sherlock himself very much wanted to storm out but knew he was already on dangerously thin ice with John.

He cleared his throat and three pairs of eyes were on him. Mary kept her expression neutral. John raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, which meant he was expecting something. Evie's expression was indecipherable.

'Ah,' he cleared his throat again, 'Mary, I believe I owe you an... apology.' He forced the word out, and Evie's eyebrow raised. 'It wasn't my place to reveal those things and I apologise for the problems I've caused.'

A moment passed, Mary searching his face with her gaze. Then, she smiled. 'It's okay,' she said. 'I know John's hard to let go of.'

John laughed, as did Evie, and Sherlock forced a smile onto his face, dreading the night ahead.

* * *

The sensation of Sherlock Holmes passed, as these things often do. The crowd of intrusive journalists thinned and thinned until there was only one nosy member of the paparazzi every other day or so. Sherlock and John slowly faded from both people's minds and the covers of tabloids (she'd also appeared on a magazine cover, once, in an article called _DETECTIVE, DOCTOR AND DAME – LOVE TRIANGLE ALERT! _But after a few choice words with the editor, the publishing world appeared to get the message that she was not to be featured, or even mentioned, again).

But still, Evie was finding it hard to adapt to life with Sherlock Holmes. She'd always thought herself to be a patient person, but she was seeing now that the truly patient ones were John and Mrs Hudson. Whatever Sherlock's antics, they bore it with grace and dignity. Evie, however, didn't fare as well. His snide comments she managed to ignore, but his other oddities proved harder to turn her back on – mainly his habit of stashing body parts in her fridge and the violin he played in the wee hours of the morning.

At the start, she would scream at the foot in her fridge or the fingers in her ice tray, and demand for Sherlock to remove his experiments from her fridge _immediately_. The first time, he descended the stairs and they bickered until the detective finally, grudgingly, gave in (this feat rather impressed John) and took his body parts back up the stairs to his own flat. After that, he just ignored her until she was forced to bring the fight to him, and would storm up to their flat, commanding Sherlock to get his _Goddamn body parts out of my fridge, I keep _food_ in their for Christ's sake_.

When the effectiveness of this tactic began to wear off, however, Evie took drastic measures herself. She put on a pair of gloves, picked up the offending appendage, dumped it into a bag, stalked into 221b and dumped the limb onto the table. Sherlock didn't comment on it and, after a while, neither did Evie – she sulked in and sulked out. But this effort began to wear her down. After a while, she got used to it and began nudging toes and arms and eyeballs aside to get at her cheese.

Although she managed to adapt to the body parts strewn across her fridge, she didn't cope so well with the Violin playing. She could appreciate good music, and Sherlock produced copious amounts of it, something she admired; but it was hard to find the beauty in anything at 2:00AM with work in the morning. She would be in a deep slumber, only to be startled awake by Vivaldi, or drifting off into blissful sleep only to be prevented by some composition of his own. But it wasn't just violin – he and John trampled around the house at all hours. There were arguments. What sounded like physical fights. Once, a gun shot. She tried to cope, she really did, knowing that playing helped Sherlock think and helped him relax and could be instrumental (no pun intended) in his solving of a particularly hard case and everything they did was for the greater good. She tried asking him politely to stop playing at such hours (and was ignored), tried asking John who could do nothing about it really, she smothered her ears with her pillow, listened to soothing music, but nothing could stop the barrage of noises assaulting her from her ceiling.

As she got less and less sleep, she became crankier and crankier. Fortunately, neither John nor Sherlock were present to bear the brunt of her anger. The pair kept such irregular hours, and Evie stuck to such an unvarying schedule, that they barely ever saw each other anymore, only in passing. She would be leaving for work and they would be arriving from a long night out, or she would be returning home, to find them leaving. Sherlock was making up for sixteen month's worth of missed cases, it seemed, and his newly cleared reputation had people (and more importantly, their cases) from all over demanding his attention and skill.

Also sawing away at her rope of sanity, was the fact that she was running out of money. The capital left to her by her father wouldn't last forever – she wanted to keep a large sum of it tucked away in case of emergency, and she'd already spent more of it than she'd originally planned. She was barely scraping by with her waitressing job, even though she had picked up so many shifts that she was working six days a week. She was supplementing the rest by busking with her violin, but lately had been too tired to do anything but eat and sleep after returning from work.

The last straw happened to be a shard. The shard of a plate that slipped from her hands and smashed against the floor, porcelain pieces scattering across the ground, forming a haphazard face, staring up at her in shock. She took a deep breath, apologised to her boss, and swept up the mess.

But one shard. That one shard that she missed because it had crawled beneath a table. And beneath that table a five year old child played while his mother and her friend caught up over coffee. And that last-straw-shard cut that child and that child wailed and that child's mother yelled at the boss, and the boss yelled at Evie and said the words _we're just gonna have to let you go_. And she nodded numbly, walked home and slammed her door so hard that it rattled the hinges.

* * *

Soft guitars and a deep voice greeted John and Sherlock as they arrived home from a day of examining a picnic table at a park for clues and subsequently chasing up all resulting leads. John wanted nothing more than to give Mary a call and have a nice cuppa and a couple of biscuits before hitting the hay. He and Sherlock had been working cases non stop for almost two weeks and, although he was glad for the return of his friend and adventurous life, he did miss the sleeping bit.

Sherlock identified those soft guitars and booming voice as _Are You Lonesome Tonight_ by Elvis Presley. As he listened, the songs shifted and the bass of _Fever_ started up.

'Evie must be home,' John noted, shrugging off his coat.

'Something's upset her,' Sherlock noted in passing, shrugging off his own jacket.

'What? How do you know?'

'She listens to Elvis when she's sad.'

'Ah.' He looked at her closed door. 'Better go check up on her, then.'

He didn't need to, though. The door to 221c opened slowly, revealing a rather worse-for-the-wear Evie on the other side. She had bags beneath her eyes, she'd missed several strands of hair when braiding and her make up was sloppy at best.

She narrowed her eyes and flared her nostrils at the pair. '_You_,' she seethed.

'What happened?' John asked.

'I got fired.'

'What? Why?'

'Because of you two running around the house at all hours! Coming in and out, slamming doors, yelling and, and was there a gun shot the other night? I've barely slept a wink in two weeks! And YOU!' She turned her wrath on Sherlock. '_If you don't stop playing violin all night I will snap the bloody thing in half._'

He tutted and ascended the stairs, knowing that it was an empty threat. He didn't glance back.

'Evie,' John said, 'I'm sorry. We'll try, uh, keep it down. And I'm sorry about your job, too.'

She slumped her shoulders, all anger evaporated. 'No, it's alright, sorry I yelled. I'm just going to sleep. Think you can keep it down for a few hours?'

'Of course.'

She slept all day and all night, too. When she woke up, there was a small package and a note on her bedside table. She reached over and unfolded the piece of lined paper.

_I don't know why you didn't think of this before.-SH_

Inside the package was a pair of earplugs.


	7. Chapter 7

'John! _John!_'

Evie put down the paper, wondering if he would realise.

'_John!'_

She sighed, and got up from her comfortable position on her lounge. She climbed the stairs and entered 221b. Sherlock was lying on his own lounge, fingers steepled beneath his chin in what was called his _thinking position_.

He looked away from the ceiling when she entered.

'Where's John?'

'He and Mary went to Bath for three days. Remember?'

'Oh. When did he leave?'

'This morning.'

He furrowed his brow. Standing, he stepped onto the coffee table, and then down the other side. He was still in his dressing gown.

'Did he say anything before he left?'

'He left me instructions. I need to water you daily.'

'Yes, hilarious,' he said flatly. He paced the length of the floor. 'This is problematic.'

'Why?'

He pointed to his laptop. 'Because we've got a case.'

Evie sat down before the computer and pressed the space bar a few times to wake it from stand by. Displayed was a message on his _The Science of Deduction_ website.

_Mister Holmes,_ it read.

_I've heard many stories about you, and you seem very clever. I desperately hope you are._

_Lately, things have been moved in my house. I know it seems mad, but I'll arrive home from somewhere, or I'll wake up and some of my furniture has been moved. Now, I don't believe in ghosts, but having a ghost in my house is a much more pleasant alternative than a murderer creeping around my home when I'm asleep. As far as I can tell, nothing has been taken._

_Please help._

_Sincerely,_

_Daniel Craig_

She looked up from the screen. 'Really? That's the case? It seems a bit...'

'Go on.'

'...I don't know. Below your usual level, if what I've heard is correct.'

'Ah. And it would be, if not for this.' He pulled a small, compact radio from his pocket.

'What's that?'

'A police radio scanner.' He clicked a button and static voices erupted from within.

'And what's the police scanner saying?'

'Daniel Craig has been found dead.'

'Ah, the plot thickens.' She picked up the skull from the mantle, tracing her finger over the glued up cracks. 'Are you going then?'

'Yes.' He shrugged off his silk dressing gown, letting it fall in a pile on the floor. He pulled his coat from the back of a chair, pocketed his phone, grabbed his gloves, scarf, and swept past her out the door.

Moments later he popped his head back in the room.

'Well?' He demanded.

'Well what?'

'Are you coming?'

'Why would I come?'

'I think better when I talk aloud.'

'And you need me to do, what? Be a replacement John?'

'If it's any consolation, both you and John are a substitute,' he nodded toward the skull in her hands, 'for Yorick.'

She couldn't stop the smile that wormed it's way onto her face upon hearing the skull's name.

'Then take Yorick,' she answered. 'He'll probably be more useful.'

'He's been a tad slow since the cranial fracture. Coming?'

She let out a laugh and stepped onto the landing. Sherlock had fetched her coat from downstairs and held it out for her to slip her arms into. Excitement bubbling in her chest, she followed him out the door.

* * *

Daniel Craig had not lived a modest life. He had brought three consecutive buildings in the inner London area, knocked down the walls between and had them all painted a dull green. The result was a fat, three story building towering imposingly over the street.

Police cars were parked along the street, and the front doors had been banned by bright yellow tape. Officers milled around the perimeter, speaking into radios or interviewing civilians.

'Sorry, sir,' one said as Sherlock approached the barrier. 'This is a crime scene.'

'Of course it is,' Sherlock answered, 'that's why I'm here. Sherlock Holmes.'

The officer's eyes bulged and he hesitated before answering. 'Sorry Mister 'olmes, but no one can cross until-'

'Fetch Lestrade for me, would you?'

He hesitated again then scampered off.

'Look at you,' Evie smiled, 'aren't you just commanding.'

He cast his eye toward her. 'I've no time for bumbling fools,' he said.

'Well, well, Freak's here.'

Evie noticed Sherlock's eyes darting up and down the woman that had approached, and the way the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. He had gathered some information on the woman, Evie knew, and was very prepared to hurl it like bullets.

'Sergeant Donovan,' Sherlock greeted lightly, 'fancy seeing you here.'

She noticed Evie, and cocked her eyebrows. 'You bringing dates to murders now, freak?'

Before Evie could reply, Sherlock cut her off. 'I'm here to see my client.'

'Your client?'

'Daniel Craig. He contacted me through my website, requesting my help to determine who has been sneaking through his house.'

'The dead guy emailed you?'

'Before he died, obviously.'

'Look, I don't care what-' her radio buzzed and she listened. Her expression turned sour.

'Lestrade?' Sherlock assumed with a grin. Donovan sucked in a breath and lifted the tape for Sherlock to duck beneath.

'Is she a doctor?' Donovan asked, holding her hand up to stop Evie following. 'Or a forensic scientist?'

'I'm neither,' Evie answered, chafed at how she was being ignored.'Then she's not coming in.'

'Nonsense.' Sherlock lifted the tape and Evie stepped through. 'Now come, Genevieve. There's nothing like the first time.'

Although the house was grand, it was scant of furniture. Evie could see lighter patches on the wall where works of art had no doubt once hung but were now removed. That's all she could deduce herself, but from the way Sherlock's eyes darted across the halls as they walked she could tell he was getting a much more 3D picture.

Donovan led them up two flights of stairs until they reached the top floor. Officers filled the hallways, snooping, investigating, dusting objects for fingerprints. They cast the pair curious looks as Evie trailed after Sherlock. Donovan showed them to the living room, where a man dangled by a rope from the ceiling.

Heat pricked through Evie's skin and her vision darkened at the corners. Her breathing sped up and she fought to keep it under control. He was wearing socks, she noted numbly. Her fingernails embedded themselves into her palms. Her eyes were glued to the pair of swinging feet, the dangling legs, the slumped shoulders, the broken neck, the man just _hanging_ there like some sick decoration on a twisted tree. Sherlock glanced at her. She couldn't meet his eye.

'You're not going to faint are you?' Donovan commented snidely.

'No,' Evie replied measuredly. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make a call.'

Taking calm, measured steps she made her way back down the stairs and out the front door, where she turned to the side and threw up in the bushes. She emptied the contents of her stomach until she was retching, and wiped her mouth with shaking hands. When she had collected herself, she returned back to the crime scene.

The man hanging from the rafters was not her brother. He was a stranger, and this was a crime scene. Lord knows she'd seen enough of them. Well, photographs, but still... she could handle this. She was healed. She was strong and she was capable and she was not some swooning Victorian lady.

Sherlock was inspecting the body through his pocket magnifying glass. He circled it slowly like a predator, holding the glass to the man's feet, hands, neck, face. It was a bit disconcerting because the body swung with every disturbance to the air, but Evie forced her breathing even and dug her nails into her palms.

Sherlock stepped back from the body.

'Murder,' he announced to the room.

'What?' Lestrade asked. 'Murder?'

'Yes, murder.'

'It's a clear suicide, Sherlock. Look, his father had lost his job, Craig wasn't going to receive his inheritance, he was overweight, unhealthy, he was alone and with Valentine's coming up...'

Without looking, he pointed at the end table beside the lounge. 'A half eaten bowl of chips,' he said. 'Wouldn't you wait until you'd finished eating before you ended your life?'

'That doesn't prove anything.'

'And half a glass of wine. But that's not all. The chair. It's tipped the wrong way. If he stood, facing this direction,' he positioned himself so he faced the door as the corpse did, 'wouldn't he tip the chair backward? Instead, it's fallen forward. He didn't kick the chair over. In fact, he did not hang himself at all. There's evidence of trauma to the head caused by a blunt object. That, and the fact that Daniel Craig recently contacted me voicing his suspicions that someone had been recently sneaking around his home is all highly suggestive of the conclusion that he was, in fact, murdered.'

Without another word, Sherlock left the room and Evie hurried after him.

'That was impressive,' she admired.

'Rudimentary,' Sherlock dismissed. He swept through the house and they arrived in the kitchen. He opened cupboard after cupboard, and then the fridge.

'Genevieve,' he said. She approached him, staring into the fridge. 'What do you notice?'

'Um...' she raked her eyes across the fridge. 'It's full?'

'And?'

She looked harder.

'There's a marinating steak.'

'Why is that relevant?'

'Well, who takes the time to marinate a steak if they're going to off them self?'

'Good,' Sherlock approved. He swiped a piece of paper from the counter and held it up.

'A receipt,' Evie observed.

'Yes. For forty pounds worth of food, most of which was perishable. Who stocks up on a week's worth of groceries only to commit suicide?'

'Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing,' Evie suggested.

'You do not kill yourself on _whim_,' Sherlock replied impatiently. Evie swallowed hard.

They left the house. Outside, Sherlock stepped onto the curb and peered down the street for a taxi. Evie idled behind him.

'I hope you didn't find that too trying,' Sherlock said.

'Why would it be trying?'

He turned to her and reached over, taking her wrist gently. Using his other hand, he flipped her hand over so it lay palm up, resting atop his own, and then uncurled her fingers. Angry red half-moon's glared up at the pair.

'I forgot about your brother,' he admitted, studying her palm as carefully as a mystic. 'I understand such events can be traumatic.'

'That's okay,' she answered, taking back her hand. 'I'm fine.'

Sherlock gave a nod, then stepped back to the street side. He managed to flag down a taxi, and held the door open. Knowing that his considerate behaviour would cease if she made a comment on it, she slid into the seat. He leant forward to give the cabbie an address, then sat back in his seat.

'Where to now?' Evie questioned, unable to feel eager about the adventure ahead.

'Daniel Craig's father, Joshua.'

'How did you know who his father is?'

'He's the CEO of Greater Electronics. Well, was, he was fired recently, and sued into personal bankruptcy.'

'That's what Lestrade was saying. And Daniel Craig lost his inheritance.'

'Correct.'

'He looked like he'd gotten rid of a lot of his furniture and art. Did he sell it all?'

'Most likely.'

The cab pulled up outside a two star hotel. Sherlock paid the driver, and lead the way to room 201. He knocked briskly on the door.

'This is where Daniel's dad is living?'

'For now.'

'How did you discover that?'

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but the door opened and an unshaven, unwashed man regarded the pair with narrowed eyes.

'What do you want?' He demanded gruffly.

'We're here about your son, Daniel Craig.'

Joshua snorted, and started to close the door. 'Don't care.'

Evie's hand snaked into the room and held the door open. 'You don't care that your own son is _dead_?' She asked incredulously. The man hesitated.

'Good,' he grumbled. 'Now move your hand or you'll lose your fingers.'

Sherlock's hand appeared on the door and he forced it open wider. Joshua stumbled back into his apartment.

'We just have a few questions,' Sherlock drawled, entering the room uninvited. His eyes swept across the space.

'I don't know anything,' Joshua protested.

'Why don't you care if your son died?' Evie interrogated.

'Because you he turned you away when you needed somewhere to go,' Sherlock supplemented.

Joshua snorted. 'I gave that boy everything,' he growled. 'Ungrateful bastard.'

'But he's family!' Evie fought. 'You can't just-'

'Do you have any change?' Sherlock interrupted. Joshua blinked.

'What?'

'Change. For the cigarette machine. I'm gasping.'

'Oh.' Joshua rooted through his pocket and pulled out his wallet, rifling through it. 'Yeah, I got some coins.'

'That's all we'll need today,' Sherlock said, handing Joshua a note. 'And keep the change.'

Again, he turned and left the room, Evie following after. She wondered if this was half of what it was to be Sherlock Holmes' companion – trotting after him like a loyal puppy.

'He had a second family,' Sherlock told her as they left the complex.

'Is that why you wanted to look into his wallet?' Evie asked.

'No. I needed change.'

'No you didn't, you don't smoke.'

Somewhat miffed, he continued. 'Well, there was a picture of a woman holding a child in his wallet.'

'And it wasn't his legitimate family?'

'No, his wife was brunette not blonde,' he said as though it were obvious.

'Was?'

'She left him.' Again, that tone.

'Okay. So who are our suspects?'

His phone found his hands, and he started tapping away at the keys. 'Research. We find out about this affair and it's results. Any illegitimate offspring would feel entitled to the inheritance and have motive.'

'But Joshua got sued. There is no inheritance anymore.'

'And that, dear Genevieve, is the puzzle.'

* * *

**Huge apologies for the extreme lateness of this chapter. School has started up again and since I'm in my final year, it's very sink or swim and I'm barely treading water. I'll try much harder to update more frequently. Again, sorry.**

**-J**


	8. Chapter 8

They arrived back at 221and immedately Sherlock sat before his laptop and started to type away. As he scanned over webpages of data, he heard Evie potter around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors as she made dinner in his flat, because her heater was malfunctioning and she hated the cold, he knew. He also knew that she would make a serve of whatever she cooked for him, which he would adamantly refuse. She would then wrap it up and put it in the fridge, because she knew he would eat it later, when he'd gone on for days and was almost fainting. He was always grateful for that food, but always unwilling to admit it.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of those pointless, useless _knowings_ about a woman who was inconsequential. He returned his attention to the computer screen and pressed his fingertips together beneath his chin.

By the time he had found what he was looking for, Evie had finished cooking and was hlafway through her meal. His own portion sat steaming on the kitchen table, and he ignored it, moving through the flat, down the stairs and into Evie's own residence. He entered her room, flung open her closet doors, and picked a suitable dress and shoes, before returning back to the woman sititng on his lounge.

She had sauce on her face, and he passed her a napkin before laying the clothes down on the arm of the seat.

'Get changed,' he instructed. 'We're going out.'

She raised an eyebrow at the outfit. 'Where are we going out where I need to wear that? Are you taking me clubbing, Sherlock?'

'Just put it on. I've located Craig's ilegitamate son.'

Her eyebrows sprang up and she put her meal to the side, grabbing the clothing off the chair and slipping into Sherlock's room to change. Whie she was changing, he returned downstairs, grabbed some earrings and her coat form her flat, then hailed a cab and instructed the driver to wait for a few minutes. He offered her the earrings and coat when she came downstairs, and held the cab door open for her to duck inside.

'Where are we going?' She asked after he'd given the address to the cabbie. 'And why am I dressed like this? I feel like a pig prepared for slaughter.'

'A bar,' he answered, addressing the first question but ignoring the second.

'Is that where the son is going to be?'

He handed her his phone and she took it, smacking the middle button to wake up the device. The screen brightened, showing what looked like a Facebook profile picture of a thirtysomething year old man with dark hair and brown eyes. He was holding a bottle of beer in one hand and had the other slung around a young woman.

'Roger Graves,' Sherlock informed her, 'only son of Amanda Graves, an ex-maid who worked in the Craig household for five years until being unexpectedly fired. She then received monthly payments from Daniel Craig for the subsequent eighteen years, nothing extravagant, but enough to raise a chid on a budget, perhaps.'

'Wow,' she breathed, handing back the mobile. 'And you, what? Just found him on Facebook.'

He curled his lip. 'I do at times feel cheated,' he drawled, 'that social networking makes detecting so easy.'

They stopped at the bar and found a booth in the corner. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and Sherlock took in a deep lungful, savouring the taste of nicotine on his tongue. Evie, by contrast, looked irritated by the smoke, casting a few glances at the windows as if contemplating opening them. It was crowded, but Sherlock was quickly able to identify Roger on a stool by the bar and point him out to Evie.

'Now, go on,' he said, reclining in his seat.

'What?'

'Go and talk to him.'

'About what?'

'Ask him about his family.'

'Why me?'

'Isn't it obvious?' He swept his eyes down her attire. 'Working with a women has it's advantages. And questioning people, finding out secrets. You should be good at that.'

She rolled her eyes. 'So you're just going to throw me at a possible murderer, then,' she said flatly, and he smirked. Her lips twitched and she shrugged off her jacket, and he accepted it when she handed it to him. She took her hair from it's bun and tousled it with her fingers, grabbed the hem of her dress and wiggled it down so that her neckline dipped extra low.

'What are you doing?' Sherlock questioned, his eyes boring into hers.

'Old trick of the trade, Sherlock,' she tutted, tossing her hair over her shoulder. 'People say things to achieve a goal. So you have to give them one.' She slid out of the booth, and smoothed her skirt.

'How do I look?'

He looked her up and down with an expression she had grown to be familiar with. It was an _I'm looking, but not observing_ expression, reserved for trivial questions and useless facts.

'Fine,' he said with a nod.

She flashed a grin regardless. 'Good.' As she passed him she gave his shoulder the briefest of squeezes. 'Just keep an eye on me, eh? Don't really want to die tonight.'

She sashayed her way throught he crowd, confidence in her steps, Sherlock's eyes trained on her. His shoulder tingled with a phantom touch as he watcher her slip into the seat beside Roger. She ignored him, ordering a drink, until she caught his eye and he struck up a conversation.

She was like a different person. She flirted and laughed and tossed her hair, traced her fingers across the back of Roger's hand. Sherlock couldn't rid himself of the prickling sensation where she'd squeezed his shoulder. Sherlock was not accustomed to casual contact. He was a storm – he raged and howled and ripped through the London streets. People did not reach out and _touch_ him. Irritated by these thoughts, he systematically pinpointed them and deleted them from his mind

He watched as Roger leant forward and whispered into her ear. She grinned a wicked grin and nodded, and followed her out the door. Sherlock was on his feet in one smooth motion, strode to the door and waited for only a minute before Evie returned.

'He was bragging about his father being rich,' she told him, slipping her arms into her coat. 'And he's said he's going to inherit a fortune. Definitely suspicious. It would hold up in court, at least-'

'Well, we're not in court,' Sherlock said in a clipped tone. 'What else did he tell you?'

She relayed their conversation to him line by line and he listened intently, gaze unwavering. When she was done, he closed his eyes.

'Anything else?' He persisted. 'Did you forget anything.'

She shook her head. 'I don't forget,' she vowed. He gave the slightest twitch of his eyebrows.

'Shall we go?' He suggested. 'Unless, of course, you would rather go with _Roger_ tonight.'

'Oh, murderer,' she crooned, 'just my type.'

He smiled as he lead his way to the back door and through a maze of back alleys, making sure to keep an eye on Genevieve because they were in a bad part of town. Back on the main street, he flagged down a cab and they made their way home.

* * *

Evie stared down at the newspaper in her lap, scowling at the printed words as though partaking in an interrogation. Angrily, she crossed off another ad with marker, then scooped the mess form her lap and plopped the pile of paper onto the lounge beside her. It was ten in the morning, she'd been up for hours, yet she was still yet to change from her pajamas, brush her hair or eat breakfast.

'How's the job hunt going?'

She started at the sudden noise and then sighed, sinking down into her seat.

'Poorly, then,' Sherlock assumed.

'Where've you been all morning?'

'Bart's. I took another look at the body.'

'And?'

'Get dressed. We're off out.'

She rolled her eyes but otherwise did not protest, moving to her room to get changed.

'Where are we going?' She called as she put on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt.

When she returned to the living room, Sherlock was practically grinning.

'To catch a murderer,' he practically purred.


	9. Chapter 9

Her bed moulded to her body, welcoming her like an embrace. She immediately felt the relief in her feet, the ache of a whole day of running ebbing away. Her arm ached from where Roger had punched her and she knew she'd have a rather impressive bruise in the morning. Her head pounded and she had a split lip – not from anything heroic, either, just from running into a door in the dark. She kicked off her shoes and dragged herself further onto the bed, savouring the comfort it offered.

'Are all your cases so exhausting?' She groaned to the man in her doorway.

'More or less,' Sherlock answered.

'Aren't you tired?'

'No.'

She rolled onto her back and peered at him through the darkness. Neither she nor Sherlock had bothered turning the lights on. No point, really; they could both find their way through Evie's flat well enough in the dark.

'Take plenty of vitamin B,' Sherlock said. 'It will help your lip.'

'Thanks,' she breathed, gingerly touching her swollen bottom lip. It was only a small cut, really, and would be gone in the next few days. 'You know, I can't believe nobody's sued you yet.'

Sherlock snorted. 'The services I provide are far too valuable for anything as menial as that.'

'You broke a seventeenth century statue, Sherlock. Not to mention destroying the entire north wing of a heritage listed building and harassing not one, not two, not even _three_ but _four_ civilians. And add to that the explosives in the park and that vase.'

'_You_ broke the vase,' Sherlock corrected.

'Only because there were angry guards chasing me and it was dark.' But she couldn't stay serious for long, and let out a laugh. 'God, your life is exciting. No wonder you're all skin and bone, all that running and chasing and pursuing.'

'I don't understand how normal people,' his lip curled and he said the word with the kind of disdain that one would usually associate with things like _taxes_ and _politics_, 'can drag their feet through life, working in cafes and offices. But I suppose that's all their stunted minds can handle.'

'Thanks,' Evie said dryly, not taking offence. 'Just try and keep the destruction of public property to a minimum, yeah?'

He scoffed. 'Nobody would sue _me_.'

* * *

'You're being sued.'

Sherlock lowered his newspaper to give a fleeting glance to his brother, then quickly returned his attention to the print before him.

'Oh, am I?' He asked airily.

The tip of Mycroft's umbrella banged against the ground. 'This isn't a _joke_, Sherlock,' Mycroft growled.

'I never said it was.'

'Sued by who?' John asked as he poured milk into his cereal. He'd returned from Bath the previous week only to find Sherlock lounging about the house, plucking at the strings of his violin or flipping through nondescript books from the shelf.

'Anything exciting happen while I was away?' John had asked his friend. Sherlock had met his gaze, then shrugged.

'Nothing of importance,' he'd replied.

In the present, Mycroft let out a frustrated noise at the nonchalance of his younger brother.

'Just smooth it over like you usually do,' Sherlock told his sibling, bored. 'You've done it enough already.'

'This time it can't be _smoothed over_,' Mycroft replied contemptuously. 'This isn't just one person, Sherlock, it's a horde of them. You're being sued by the city of _Westminster_!'

Sherlock just hummed in response.

'You'll have to appear in court,' Mycroft continued. 'We must find you a barrister. The best.'

'Well, get on it, then,' Sherlock drawled.

Mycroft nodded once and reached into his jacket to pull out his mobile. He pressed a button and held the device to his ear.

'Good morning,' he greeted politely into the receiver. 'Yes, I am well. And you?' He listened for a response. 'I was hoping to set up an appointment.' Pause. 'Yes, I am.' He hung up his phone and slid it back into his coat.

The thump, thump, thump of someone ascending the stairs, and Evie appeared at the door to 221b, phone in hand and eyebrow raised.

'What's this about, then?' She asked.

'Ah, lovely to see you, Genevieve,' Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock didn't glance away from his paper, but John dropped his spoon in his bowl. 'Wait, _Evie_?' He demanded.

'Why, yes,' Mycroft nodded at John. 'As I said, the very best.'

'What's going on?' The girl in question asked, looking from John to Mycroft. 'What was this about an appointment, Mycroft?'

Sherlock finally folded his paper and placed it on the table. Standing, he checked his phone for messages, before giving the group his full attention. 'I believe Miss Blackwood here is retired, Mycroft.'

'I'm sure I could convince her to come out of retirement,' Mycroft said.

'Hang on, Evie's a barrister?' John asked, then turned to Evie. 'You're a barrister?'

She set her jaw. 'No,' she said, 'I'm not.'

Mycroft reached back into his pocket and drew out a notebook, opening at the marked page. 'Genevieve Blackwood,' he read, 'qualified as both a barrister and a solicitor. Was an undergraduate at Oxford, completing her BA in Law with Law Studies in Europe and the one-year diploma in legal studies. As a postgraduate, she completed the BCL for common-law graduates, the MJur for non-common-law graduates, the Masters in Law and Finance, the MSc in Criminology and Criminal Justice, the part-time postgraduate diploma in Intellectual Property Law and Practice and MSt in International Human Rights Law, graduating as top of her class in all courses. She then went on to work with her father Charles Blackwood and brother Logan Blackwood, a barrister and solicitor respectively. Charles owned the most successful Law Firm in England, centred in Birmingham, and he and his children were in high demand before the practice ended... unfortunately. To date, Genevieve has yet to lose a case. She is, one might say, a genius.'

'More qualifications than you,' Sherlock smirked.

Evie flushed at the praise, but her resolve would not waver. 'Not a genius,' she corrected. 'Just a hard worker. And I'm flattered that you did all that research, Mycroft, but I mean it when I say _I am retired._ I don't do that stuff anymore.'

'Perhaps we can make an exception,' Mycroft mused.

'No, we can't.' She sighed. 'You don't need me, Mycroft. There are plenty of good barristers and solicitors out there who could help Sherlock.'

'I will only place my brother in the hands of the best.'

'I won't do it.'

'Of course,' Mycroft said in the condescending manner of one placating a child. He removed a file from his briefcase and placed it on the table, and then a cheque book on which he scrawled a sum and placed on top of that.

'The charges against Sherlock,' Mycroft told her, tucking his pen away, 'and the initial pay. I'm sure we will discuss an appropriate rate and payment at length once you've changed your mind. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.'

He exited with the perfect mix of aloofness and drama that Sherlock possessed. _Must run in the family, _Evie though sourly, staring moodily at Mycroft's retreating back.

'John,' Sherlock said, pulling on his coat, 'we have a case.'

'What? Oh, um, yeah, right.' He dumped his empty cereal bowl in the sink and stuffed his arms through his coat sleeves. He regarded Evie with a concerned expression. 'You okay?' He asked softly.

'Fine,' she answered. 'Have fun fighting crime, you two.'

John smiled his goodbye and Sherlock just nodded, before the pair swept out into the streets of London to take the world by storm.

Or something of the sort. Evie stood there for a few moments, then looked around surreptitiously before swiping up the folder on the table. She flipped it open, studying intently the some twenty charges being pressed against Sherlock, and let out a low whistle. She then picked up the cheque and almost dropped it again. _Oh, my God_, she thought numbly. With just the initial payment, she wouldn't have to worry about her fiscal responsibility for months. And it was only the _incentive fee!_ She put the cheque back on the table and returned her attention to the file. The accounts of destruction of public and government property she could easily get out of. The harassment accounts would take a bit more skill, but do-able. The charges of inducing trauma would be a challenge that she knew she would enjoy. She was already formulating her case in her head, thinking about the people she would need to talk to-

She dropped the file back on the table and stubbornly turned her back, determined not to think of it any longer.

* * *

**The UK still observes the difference between a barrister and a solicitor. A barrister appears in court before the judge and jury to defend or prosecute, while a solicitor does not appear in court and offers legal advice. In America, as far as I know, they would be referred to as a ****lawyer and legal consultation.**

**As always, thank you for reading.**

**-J**


	10. Chapter 10

John rapped three times at Evie's door then waited patiently to be granted permission to enter.

'Come in,' Evie's voice came, and John heeded. He pushed open the door to find his friend sprawled across her couch with a bowl of popcorn resting on her stomach. Some movie was playing on the TV and she mindlessly shovelled the snack into her mouth as she gazed at the telly screen.

She pulled up her legs as John approached so that he could sit down, and offered him the popcorn. He took a handful and chucked a few kernels into his mouth as he relaxed into the lounge.

'So,' he said, casting a look at the woman out of the corner of his eye. 'A barrister, eh?'

'Yep,' she said through a mouthful of the snack.

'Solicitor too?'

She shrugged.

'Why didn't you tell me?' He asked, trying not to appear slightly wounded. They'd known each other for over a year now. He thought he knew all about her. But he guessed this was his fault; he never really cared to ask.

She sat up, leaning against the arm of the couch, the popcorn bowl cradled in her lap. 'I dunno,' she answered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. 'I guess because it's a part of my life that's over now. You know, boxed up, put away. Didn't really make sense to bring it up again.'

He studied her carefully, trying to gouge her emotional state. She didn't seem irritated like she had been before, and she didn't seem sad like she usually did when thinking about her past. She just seemed tired, like she had a child who was throwing a tantrum.

'Why'd you stop?' He questioned, reaching for another handful of popcorn. 'I mean, it was something your father did, your brother too. Was it because your brother, uh, you know...'

'Killed himself? Maybe that's a part.' She let her head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. 'I quit because I looked at my life and realised that I hadn't helped a single person who deserved it.'

'What do you mean?'

She sighed. 'My father was a great man,' she explained, 'but he wasn't exactly a good one.' A smile ghosted across John's face, but he remained silent. 'Maybe, way back, at the beginning, he had morals. He defended the innocent and he always, always won. But along the way, money did what money does – it corrupted him. And he didn't care about doing the right thing anymore, just for the highest bidder, and the most challenging case.' She sighed. 'Him, and my brother, and me, we put a lot of trash back out on the streets, John. Bailed out a lot of bad people.'

She picked mindlessly at the popcorn, not meeting John's eye. 'After my father and Logan died, mum and I were trying desperately to salvage the company, and this guy rings me up in the middle of the night. His name was Aaron Johnson. A couple of years ago he'd been charged with the murder of his wife and the man who she was having an affair with. He did it, too – he said as much to me, but I didn't care. He was rich. So I got him cleared. Anyway, so this night he rings me up and he says he's in some hot water because the police thought he'd murdered some kids. And I asked him, did you? And,' she swallowed hard, 'I remember, he said "Yeah. I did. But it's not like the truth matters, right?" And he laughed.'

'Jesus,' John breathed.

'I know, right? It was just...' She shook her head. 'And it was my fault, too. If it wasn't for me, those kids wouldn't have died.' She ran her hand through her hair, messing it further. 'Jace Wallace, nine, and Leah Algeron, twelve. They'd been playing in his lawn, trampling his flowers and he just... snapped. And it was all my fault he was there and not in gaol like he deserved.'

'Evie,' Joh reached out and lay a hand on her leg. 'I'm sorry. But it-'

The words jammed up in his throat. Saying _it wasn't your fault_ to her seemed pointless, because they both knew that she was, at least, partly to blame. So he just patted her leg comfortingly.

'So I told my mum that I didn't want to do that anymore,' she finished, 'and she disowned me.' She laughed, wiping her hand across her face tiredly. 'Well, that's more exposition then I've ever done.'

He smiled. 'It's fine, Evie.'

They sat in silence, returning their attention to the move and watching the remainder without speaking. When it was done, Evie got up, stretched out the kinks in her back and flicked off the telly, putting the now empty bowl of popcorn on her coffee table to wash tomorrow.

But John couldn't resist. Just as he got to the door, he turned back.

'But you know Sherlock isn't a... murderer or anything,' John reasoned. 'He's a good person, who's doing good things. He's not like your old clients.'

'I know he's not,' Evie agreed.

'He'd really appreciate your help,' John said.

'It's not just him,' she raised a brow at him. 'You're in there, too.'

He blinked. 'Me?'

'In some charges you're an accessory, in others a perpetrator. Looking at possible gaol time and a hefty fine.'

John turned pale. He flapped his mouth open and shut a few times. 'Me?' He repeated.

'Yeah.'

'I've never broken a law in my life!'

Her eyebrows shot up.

'Well, I hadn't until...'

'Sherlock,' she finished for him.

'I don't want to be pushy, but... I would _really_ appreciate it if you helped us out.'

She gave a sad smile, and he could see that she was deliberating over the decision. 'The thing is,' she said slowly, 'that I don't _want_ to be that person again, and I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop myself if I start.'

John reached over and squeezed her arm. 'I'm sure you weren't _that_ bad. You were still you, right?'

She snorted. 'You'd be surprised.'

* * *

She had a lot of work to do; she hadn't worked a case in years, and so she was transported back to her days at Oxford as she stayed up until the wee hours studying texts and old case files. And once she felt sufficiently reminded of all she had once known, she started in on the charges against Sherlock and John, writing up her defence. Some took her only an hour or two to build a solid, fool proof argument. Others took more time, took more research, took her pouring over statements and exhibits for hours on end, and sucking limes to stay awake, but she could always, always talk her clients out of a tricky situation.

Sherlock noticed the changes before even Evie did. He noticed how she slept less, and took her coffee black now. His keen eyes picked up on her manicured nails, the increase in and care put into her cosmetics, the new perfume she wore. He observed how her manner slowly, over weeks, grew colder, grew efficient and professional. She walked with elegance and with the stature of a woman who had the world beneath her thumb. Her tone became clipped and to the point, and he could very easily believe that she had never once lost a case in her career. She stopped making them dinner, stopped making _herself_ dinner, often eating out. On the rare occasions she was home and John went to talk to her, she would tell him she was busy and he would leave without having said what he'd gone to say.

When they arrived back one day, they found Evie waiting for them, sitting on a kitchen chair, file open before her, flicking through mechanically. Sherlock studied her, cataloguing the changes. She had been out of the flat a lot recently, doing God knows what, and the flatmates hadn't seen her in a few days. She was wearing an expensive purple blouse tucked into a black high waisted skirt that followed the curve of her hip to her knee, a far cry from jeans and comfy shirts, and her perfume coloured the apartment. She was wearing lipstick and didn't seem to mind, had received a haircut, and she seemed more aware of her own sexual influence then Evie ever had. Sherlock heard John swallow.

'Hello, boys,' she greeted, putting down her files.

'Evie,' John said. 'Wow. You look, ah, great, you look great.'

'You're such a sweetheart,' she smiled, and her eyes glinted. 'But unfortunately, I'm not here for a social call. I'm here to talk business.'

Sherlock removed his overcoat and took as seat on his arm chair. 'Of course,' he said. 'Business. How is the defence going?'

'Well. The court dates have been set.' She held up a slip of paper. 'They're here. You will attend each and every one, both of you, at least an hour before the court comes into session, so I may brief you on the days cases. I've researched the prosecutors, the jury and the judge. I've done my part so far.'

'Excellent,' Sherlock drawled. He couldn't help the irritation niggling in the back of his mind. He did not like this woman, and he was starting to regret letting John talk her into this. 'What are you expecting now? A pat on the back?'

She ignored him. 'What troubles me, however, is the amount of trouble you two still seem to be finding, despite the fact that you are under a very watchful eye. You're on thin ice, boys, and need to step carefully.'

'Are you suggesting we stop cases?' John asked.

'Impossible,' Sherlock said bluntly.

'I realise that it's impossible. I also realise that stopping business altogether would be an act of cowardice and guilt in the eye of the press. Because of this, from now on until you are no longer my client, all possible cases will be first run by me. I will select which puzzle you may solve based on the likelihood of the destruction to your public image during the case solving process, and you will be allowed to undertake the chosen, and _only_ the chosen, problem. When that one is solved, I will select the next and the process will begin anew. Do we have an understanding?'

'I refuse.'

Her expression didn't change.

'Look, Evie,' John tried, 'I know you're trying to help us and everything, but the clients are important and Sherl- _we_ both choose which case to do based on priority.'

She levelled him with a cold look. Any traces of the woman who had cooked him dinners and hugged him hard was gone, and a stranger was in her place; a stranger with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue._ I don't want to be that person again, and I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop myself if I start. _He was starting to get what she meant.

'I'm afraid I have to insist,' she said.

Sherlock scowled. '_I_ am your employer. _You _don't tell me what to do.'

She picked up her files and tucked them beneath her arms, raising her chin.

'I'm afraid that _Mycroft_ is my employer,' she corrected haughtily, 'and I am operating under one single instruction; _do what it takes_.' Her heels clicked against the floor as the exited the room. She walked right past Sherlock, but she didn't reach out to touch him before she left, and Sherlock found himself oddly disappointed, and this disappointment irritated him, so he glared at her as she walked out. 'I'll email you your next case,' she called, without looking back.


	11. Chapter 11

He was awoken by the smell of smoke drifting through his window. Cigarette smoke, and, taking into account the humidity, the weather, and the direction of the wind, the smoker was right outside the front door. Throwing on his dressing gown, Sherlock crept from his room and down the stairs. Nobody in 221 or the adjacent buildings smoked – so why would somebody be smoking beneath his stoop?

The answer was, surprisingly, Evie, leaning against the front wall, staring out onto a street bathed in the glow of cheap city street lights. A cigarette, barely smoked, sat between two manicured fingers. As he watched, she took a drag, closing her eyes in pleasure, held the smoke in her lungs for a brief moment and then released it into the night air. It dissipated into the sky, the perfect crime. It does the damage then vanishes.

'You smoke,' he noted, wondering how he had never noticed before and racking his brains for any hint at all that she had once been addicted like him. He thought about the bar they'd gone to, how she'd tried to get away from the smoke while Sherlock had revelled in it, and realised she hadn't been disgusted; she'd been trying to escape temptation.

'No,' she answered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. 'I don't.'

Oddly enough, he knew what she meant. Genevieve the first class barrister didn't indulge such a filthy and record-marring habit such as smoking, and neither did Evie, who's only addictions, really, was a bit too much daytime TV and a lot too much wine. He realised that he was seeing a secret part of herself that perhaps nobody had ever seen before and, even though he did not like the woman who'd come forth in recent weeks, he couldn't help but feel secretly pleased.

'Well then,' he murmured into the quiet, gaze following the smoke up into the air until it vanished. 'Why... don't you?'

She chuckled. 'First in my class? In all my classes? Had to find a way to stay sane, didn't I?'

'So it helped you relax,' he finished.

'Yes.' She grinned furtively. 'Well, that and a lot of sex.'

Unsure how to respond to the comment, he turned to face the street. London was quiet, for once, the residents sleeping as they always did so they could wake up and go to work as they always did. Dull. Repetitive. Boring.

A pack of cigarettes was offered to him, and he looked down at the slim rods of tobacco.

'I don't smoke,' he intoned.

'I know you don't.'

He took one from the packet and cupped his hands around the tip so he could shield it from the wind. He lit it with the lighter she handed him, and took a long, slow drag. John would be disappointed. The old Evie would have been too, most likely, so it was good that neither of them were present.

'How are the cases?' She asked.

'Dull. Easy.'

She nodded. 'Good.'

'When will I be able to find a challenge again?'

'The last court date is April 20th, and then I want you to lay low for a while, so you can be back in action by early May.'

He pursed his lips, irritation crossing his features.

'Don't be so pouty,' she reprimanded. 'I know you've been doing a few in secret. It's fine as long as you don't get recognised. If you blow this, Sherlock, I will not be happy.'

'Well, then I won't blow it, will I.'

He watched as she took another pull of cigarette. She made a displeased face and he knew she'd tasted filter. She flicked the butt onto the ground and twisted the ball of her foot over it to extinguish the ember. She pulled another from her pack and tried to light it, but the weak flame was quickly vanquished by the growing wind.

Irritated, she put the lighter back in her pocket. Unlit cigarette grit between her teeth, she stuck her face before Sherlock's so that the tip of her cigarette pressed against his, and drew in a breath, coaxing the flame onto her own. It caught, and she moved away from him to enjoy her success a lungful at a time.

Unwontedly flummoxed by her sudden close proximity, and then by the sudden loss it it, Sherlock straightened the collar of his dressing gown, finished his cigarette in a few quick puffs, and stamped it out on the pavement. Without even a word of goodnight, he left Evie standing in the dark.

* * *

Evie studied the menu at the restaurant and Sherlock looked purposely bored. The waiter came, and Evie placed her order. Sherlock ordered nothing, but she knew he would pick off her plate, so she ordered an extra side of chips to compensate. He'd been eating more since she'd restricted his case load.

'Why are we here?' Sherlock drawled, resting his head on his hand. They were at a very classy restaurant, surrounded by the rich and beautiful. Evie had put on an expensive dress and curled her hair, and fortunately hadn't tried to force Sherlock into a tie.

'Your first court hearing is tomorrow. I wanted to go over what you're going to say and how you're going to behave.'

'And how am I going to behave?'

'Well,' she answered. The waiter poured them both a glass of white wine, and she picked it up to take a sip.

'Which charge is this for?' He asked.

'It's all the ones pressed against you by the council. The destruction of public property and the Carver case for harassment.'

'Carver?'

'The tube operator.'

'Oh. Him. Why isn't John here?'

'Tomorrow is solely for you, Sherlock. John has his own public destruction charges on Tuesday, and then the both of you are in on Saturday week against the Municipal Art Gallery and Westminster Council.'

'Gen?'

The man who approached their table was tall, well built and very good looking. He had meticulously styled blonde hair and two gleaming rows of perfect white teeth. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man, immediately deducing. _Gen?_ A barrister, wealthy, successful, vain, old, gambler, vegetarian, colleague of Evie's from Oxford.

'Anthony!' She stood, and allowed for Anthony to kiss her cheeks. 'I wasn't aware you were in London.'

He let out a hearty laugh. 'Of course you were,' he contradicted. 'We have a court date together in five weeks. I know you did your research.'

She grinned impishly. 'Well, the two of us, pinned against each other in the highest court of law. Isn't that _exciting_.'

He winked. 'I'm excited, that's for sure.'

It was only then that he noticed Sherlock. Anthony's eyes drilled into his, and Sherlock knew that this man knew exactly who he was.

'And who is this lucky gentleman?' Anthony faked. Evie played along.

'Sherlock Holmes, allow me to introduce you to an old rival from my university days, and the persecutor against us in the Rowland case, Anthony Lark. Anthony Lark, my client, Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock didn't like the way he was labeled as something as insignificant as a client, then had a brief thought that the recent press had gone to his head, and deleted it. He stood and accepted the offered hand. 'Charmed,' he droned sarcastically, and Evie's eyes flashed in warning. _Be nice_. John had said that too when introducing him to Mary.

'Well, pleasure to meet you, Mister Holmes,' Anthony said. 'It's a shame I'm going to have put you behind bars for the next five to ten years with no bail.'

'No bail? Aren't we aiming a bit high, Tony?' Evie teased.

'Oh, but darling,' Anthony held out his arms in a faux-modest gesture. 'I am _very _good.'

'And, if you've forgotten, so am I.'

'As if I could forget that.' Anthony drew a small card from his wallet, and handed it to Evie.

'Your card?'

'In case you want to... reminisce. About our Oxford days.'

She slipped the card into her clutch. 'I'll keep that in mind.'

He said his goodbyes and removed himself from their presence. When they sat back down, their food arrived and Sherlock scowled from across the table.

'I don't trust him,' Sherlock growled.

'And you shouldn't. He's a barrister.'

'Does that mean I shouldn't trust you?'

She picked up her glass of sauvignon blanc and swirled the wine around thoughtfully.

'I don't know,' she said slowly.

* * *

He knew where she was going as soon as she stepped into his flat in a red cocktail dress.

'Do me up?' She asked, presenting her back to him. John was at Mary's – he'd been spending a lot of time there, lately, and Sherlock knew they wouldn't be flatmates for much longer. He also knew John would not be an unmarried man for much longer, but he kept that to himself.

'Shouldn't you be preparing the next case?' Sherlock said, plucking the strings of his violin and twitching the fine tuners accordingly.

'Already done,' she answered. 'Don't I deserve a reward? We won yesterday, if you recall.' Pulling her painstakingly curled hair to the side, she once more displayed her partly clothed back. 'So are you going to help?'

He put his violin on top of the case, and stepped over the coffee table to get to her. His knuckles bumped against her warm skin as he wiggled the zipper further and further up her back until it hit the top.

'One moment, I need to get the hook and eye,' Sherlock mentioned, and she could feel him fiddling with the top of the dress. When he dropped his hands, she let her hair swing back.

'Thanks,' she smiled. 'Don't wait up for me.'

He scoffed, but couldn't help but watch her walk away.


	12. Chapter 12

It wasn't the fact that Sherlock was waiting for her outside the Egerton House Hotel that surprised her; what surprised her was that she wasn't surprised at all. He was nonchalantly leaning against the low wall lining the pathway as she partook in the walk of shame. His gaze poured over her like a bucket of ice water, and she knew what he was seeing; Her hair was distinctly messed, her lipstick worn off, and the creases on her dress suggested that it had been lying on the floor. Still, she held her head high as she walked.

'Thanks for jamming my zipper,' she said lightly as she walked past him. He fell into step beside her.

'Oh my, did I do that? My mistake. I do hope it wasn't _too _inconvenient.'

'Not for the reasons you think, but you did ruin a perfectly good dress.'

The night had cooled distinctly, from a balmy evening to a chilly three a.m. Evie's skin rippled with goosebumps and she folded her arms to try and conserve some body heat. Her dress was held together by some safety pins because Anthony had ripped the broken zipper open, and she could feel the night air trickle down her spine, dragging it's icy fingers across her flesh.

'I hope you feel relaxed enough now,' Sherlock commented dryly. She reached across and tugged gently at his hand. He stopped walking and she stepped closer to him, her body brushing against his, her perfume heavy in his nose. She brought up her hand so that it touched his upper arm lightly.

'I could do with some more relaxing,' she breathed. She was so close he could see the distinct curve of each individual eyelash as her eyes dropped to his mouth and then rose back up to meet his gaze. As he parted his lips to answer she pulled away again and he was left with that same feeling associated with lighting cigarettes and touching shoulders.

She started to walk again and after a moment's pause he followed.

'Unfortunately,' she said, 'I don't sleep with clients. It's bad for business.'

There were no cabs out this early, and the buses had stopped running. The Egerton House Hotel was close enough to Baker Street that there were no stations in between, so it was a forty minute walk. She felt something heavy on her shoulders and realised that Sherlock had draped his coat over her. She smiled in the dark as she slid her arms into the jacket. Sherlock was a foot taller than her so her hands got lost in the sleeves and the hem brushed her ankles. It was still warm from Sherlock's body heat, smelt like his aftershave, and she buttoned it up.

'Thanks,' she said.

He ignored her gratitude. They walked in silence, and Evie was starting to think they would reach 221 without exchanging another word. They were only a few blocks away, now. The night was held back by yellow streets lights, lurking in the corners and ready to pounce as soon as a lightbulb blew. In the distance a siren wailed and a dog barked and someone, somewhere was dying.

_Morbid_, she thought, sighing into the silence and shaking her head slightly to dislodge to dark thought. She peeked at Sherlock as they walked from the corner of her eye, though she didn't know why she bothered with subtlety when it came to him. He was probably fully aware the she was looking. She wondered what he thought of her little trick before. Probably nothing.

'John's worried about you,' Sherlock told her so suddenly she almost jumped, his voice intruding on her thoughts and the late night quiet.

'Is he? That's sweet.'

'He thinks you've changed.'

She didn't answer at first, and he could discern no sign of reaction from her back.

'What do you think?' She asked eventually.

'I don't _think_ you've changed. I know you have. It's fairly obvious.'

'You don't survive in the world of law by being sweet, Mister Holmes. You survive by being clever.'

'You were always clever,' he stated.

'That's nice of you to recognise. But women have to work harder to be taken seriously, Sherlock.'

'And Anthony will help you be _taken seriously_?' He said sarcastically.

'Anthony and I have a mutually beneficial relationship. We both get what we want and he can't rat me out without incriminating himself and vice versa. It's a win-win.'

Sherlock pursed his lips.

'Still,' she said, 'he'll be gone after he loses the Rowland case.'

'Why would I care?' he snapped. She held up her hands innocently.

'I never said you did.'

They walked awhile in the eery quiet of the late night (or early morning), no sounds but their shoes tapping against the ground.

'And what about you?' He asked.

'What about me?'

'What happens to you when all the court dates are over?'

She pulled up the collar of her borrowed coat, looking thoughtful. 'I don't know,' she said eventually.

'Will you continue your cases?'

She shrugged. 'It's good money,' she reasoned, 'and it's what I'm good at.'

'It's not the only thing.'

'What else is there?'

'The violin.'

She stared, startled by the unexpected compliment.

'Well, good enough.'

She couldn't help but laugh.

'So what will you do?'

'I don't know,' she repeated.

He looked irritated, and she supposed he would. If there was anything Sherlock hated, it was _not knowing. _He was not in the business of being vague.

'I think I'm addicted,' she admitted quietly. 'Don't you get that way, too? Addicted to a challenge? Addicted to success?'

His lack of reply was confirmation enough.

'What would you have me do?' She pressed.

Instead of answering, he said, 'We're back.' They were a few doors away from 221, and Sherlock lengthened his stride and overtook her, reaching the door and entering without waiting.

Evie shook her head and dawdled awhile, in no particular hurry to reach her empty flat. Her evening with Anthony had brought her pleasure but no comfort, and, truth be told, she found herself missing her family with an ache so fierce that sometimes she had to stop, close her eyes and take a breath before she could keep going. Every time she lay eyes on the mandatory white wig and black robes she could see her father smiling at her, ruffling her hair as he prepared for a case, could hear his voice as he admonished her for trying on his wig. Every time she looked at a case file she found herself thinking _how would dad do this?_ Every time she spoke, she could hear her dad in her head; she was merely an echo of him. Quieter, weaker, a cheap rip-off brand. Breathing in sharp night air she contemplated the attachments people form to _things, _the bitterness of sentimentality and fancied herself to be quite poetic.

And her thoughts turned to Sherlock. She didn't know what his refusal to answer her meant. She didn't know what anything Sherlock did meant, really, though he seemed to be informed of every inch of her life. She supposed he wouldn't be good at giving advice, though, so perhaps it was for the best that she didn't know what he thought.

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her handbag and slipped one between her lips. She let it rest there, dead, for a few moments, then lit up, watching smooth smoke curl up into the air. Too late, she remembered she wasn't wearing her own coat, but decided Sherlock wouldn't mind the slight smell of tobacco clinging to his jacket. Suddenly struck by a thought, she wedged the fag between her teeth and rifled through his pockets. Empty. He would've made sure nothing of importance would be left in them when he leant it to her, she supposed.

She let her mind wander. Sherlock was attractive, in a peculiar sort of way. He was tall and lean, his eyes were a nice blue - well, maybe not nice, but definitely striking. His hair she found adorable, though she would never say it out loud. She would also never admit aloud her jealousy of his cheekbones, and how her eyes wandered toward his lips more than what was probably appropriate. More than that, he was absolutely brilliant, the most clever man she'd ever met – and she'd attended Oxford. He was a hurricane of a man, but kinder then he'd ever admit, and his small moments of tenderness toward John that he thought she didn't glimpse only served to make him more appealing.

But still, he would be an absolutely terrible boyfriend.

She stamped out her half-smoked cigarette and pushed open the front door that Sherlock had been kind enough to leave unlocked, thinking that she'd never been in love before and she wasn't about to start now.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reviewing and reading!**

**-J**


	13. Chapter 13

Admittedly, she _was_ very good.

She blew the first few cases out of the water. One barrister had even abandoned his client upon hearing that she would be the defendant. She worked through methodically, spoke concisely, appealed confidently. The court room was her battlefield and, with all the modesty in the world, she _dominated._ So what if she was smoking more, so what if she wasn't as _friendly_ anymore? At least she wasn't busting tables and dealing with people's bullshit. She was solving problems and using her brain and winning – and that was all that mattered.

The Rowland case was approaching and Evie squashed her nerves with a pack a day and an endless string of one night stands (she couldn't call Anthony – because then he would _know_ she was stressed). She sat at her desk for hours, approaching the case from every angle, finding hole after hole in her defence and would hurry outside, lighting her cigarette with shaking hands. Once outside and having inhaled a lungful of blissful smoke, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contact list.

_No_, she thought, reading off the names, _no, no, no, no._ Gritting her teeth, she pocketed the small device, glancing around the dark street. Looking up, she saw the light streaming through the window upstairs and smirked as she stamped out her cigarette.

She neatened her hair, slipped into some tight jeans and a shirt she knew flattered her figure, then grabbed a bottle of nice scotch before she ascended the stairs. She knocked twice, then entered. John was sitting before his laptop, reading something. Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

Perfect.

'Evie!' John smiled. 'What are you doing here?'

'Just taking a break,' she answered, grabbing two glasses and pouring them one each. She handed one to him and he accepted with a grin. 'Needed to relax.'

'You have been working hard lately,' he admitted. 'How's everything going?'

They chattered on for a while, falling back into old habits, Evie making sure that his glass never got too close to the bottom. They talked about everything, about work, about Sherlock, about Mary.

'I think I'm going to move out soon,' he confessed to her quietly. She'd been inching closer and closer to him all night, and was tracing patterns on his arm. Her motions faltered when he said this, then resumed.

'Really?' She purred.

'Yeah.' His cheeks were stained pink from the scotch. 'You know, I can really see myself marrying her.'

Doubt struck her for a moment, like a flash flood, and she was suddenly very aware of what she was doing. And she hated herself for it. She withdrew into her chair, nursing her glass of scotch in her hands.

'What about you?' John asked. 'Met someone recently?'

'What? Ah, no, I haven't.' She stood abruptly, placing her glass on the table. 'I have to go, uh, get back to work.'

She hurried out of the apartment and down the stairs until she was in her own flat, where she stood staring at the papers strewn across her kitchen table. She heaved a sigh, rubbed her hands across her face, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She washed the cosmetics off her face, changed into her pyjamas and crawled into bed early for once. She pulled her blankets tight around her and tried to squash her loneliness. She wanted to talk to John, but after what she had just tried to pull she didn't feel like she could. She'd almost become a homewrecker, and while in all probability she had probably slept with a married man before, none of them had been her closest friend, and none of them had made her feel as ashamed as she did now.

She thought about who else she could call, and none came to mind. Well, Sherlock, but... he was Sherlock. He wouldn't have time for her like this. She sighed and sat up again, reaching for her pack of smokes but in the dark she knocked it off her bedside table. She grit her teeth and decided to take it as a sign, biting down against the urge. Instead, she plugged her iPod into the dock, put on her Elvis playlist and stared despondently into the dark while The King crooned her to sleep.

* * *

She woke up full of resolve. Scooping the cigarettes off her bedroom floor, she chucked them in the bin before she could change her mind. She had a shower then looked up a pancake recipe on her phone, got out all of the appropriate ingredients, turned on her stove and started to cook.

She burnt the first one and tried to focus entirely on the cooking instead of the craving, and the next few turned out more successfully. Reminiscent of her waitressing days, she balanced a plate piled high with pancakes in one arm and carried some syrup in the other and exited her flat without glancing back at the papers on her table.

She knocked the door with her foot. 'John?'

No response.

She kicked the door again.

'John? You up?'

When there was still no response, she juggled the syrup around until she had enough free hand to turn the door knob. The flat was dark, curtains still drawn, and Sherlock lay on the sofa in his dressing gown, hands pressed together beneath his chin as usual. His eyes turned to her when she entered and, forcing a smile, she made her way to the kitchen where she lay down her gifts and fetched some plates from the cupboards.

'John still asleep?'

'Yes.'

His voice was clipped and without emotion, but she forged ahead, determined to be nice. 'How have you been lately, Sherlock?' She said lightheartedly. 'Staying out of trouble?'

She was ignored.

She plated up a couple of the breakfast treats and poured a generous helping of syrup on top. A knife and fork from the drawer, and she cleared some room on the coffee table to place it before him.

'D'you want a coffee?' She offered.

Sitting upright and picking up his cutlery, he answered, 'Black-'

'Two sugars, I know.'

She put the kettle on as Sherlock cut up a bite of his breakfast. Not on a case, then, she thought as she plucked the instant coffee from the cupboard, spooning the appropriate amount into a mug, and then the sugar.

'Shouldn't you be preparing for the Rowland case?' Sherlock said after swallowing another mouthful. 'It's in a week.'

'I'm just taking a break, you know, checking up on my boys. Doing something nice and all that.'

'You feel guilty.'

'What would I feel guilty about?' She laughed, pouring the hot water into the mug and stirring thoroughly.

'Your failed attempts to seduce John, perhaps.'

The mug slipped from her grip, and while she managed to catch it before the majority of the contents abandoned ship, a small amount splashed over the rim of the cup and onto her hand. She hissed, quickly placing the mug down and sticking her hand beneath the tap to run cold water over the red area.

'A moment of weakness,' she told him shakily, turning off the tap and picking his mug back up to bring to his nest on the sofa.

'A moment of hypocrisy,' he corrected, eyes narrowed in accusation.

She felt her cheeks burn. 'Look,' she said hotly, 'I already feel bad enough, I don't need _you_ to-'

'I find it very hypocritical indeed,' he continued as if she had not objected, 'that you feel that you have the right to lecture _me_ on appropriate behaviour when _you_ try to sleep with John at the drop of a-'

'I was stressed-'

'That's hardly an excuse-'

'But I-'

They both ceased speaking when the sound of John's bedroom door opening then closing echoed through the flat. Moments later he emerged, yawning, hair sticking up at all angles. His eyes landed on the steaming pile of pancakes and a smile broke out over his face.

'Pancakes!" He said. 'That's a nice change. Did you make these, Evie?'

She nodded, head ducked to hide her red face and peeked at Sherlock through her hair. His eyes bore into hers but he kept his lips firmly shut. _How long will that last?_ She wondered, dread weighing down her stomach.

'I, uh, have to go work on the, um,' she swallowed, 'case, the Rowland case, I'll talk to you later.'

She fled down the stairs once more and back into her flat, heart thumping wildly. She'd thought that Sherlock would out her for sure, and the notion that John or even Mary, whom she had come to appreciate, would hate her was more than any woman in her mid twenties with no family and only two (three? What was Sherlock?) friends in the world could bear.

She sat back down before her papers and tried to focus, but she couldn't concentrate and every time she found another hole in her defence she felt so irritated with herself that she had to close her eyes and take a few deep breaths. She scrawled illegible notes on her drafts which she crossed out just as quickly, typed and re-typed points over and over again, reviewed witness statements repeatedly and took none of it in. She sat at her table for hours without making any progress at all.

And God, she wanted a cigarette.

As if her prayers had been heard, a pack of Hilton Platinum smokes slid into her vision. She looked up to see Sherlock, lounging against her kitchen counter, a cigarette clamped between his own teeth.

Her fingers itched to reach out and grab one, to shove it between her lips, light up and take a beautiful, wonderful, satisfying drag but she forced herself still.

'I quit,' she informed.

'Mind if I smoke, then?' Sherlock replied.

'Yes.'

'Good.' He brought a lighter to the tip and lit up, took a breath and then let the smoke leak from his lips. She closed her eyes, her stomach craving for a cigarette of her own. She took in a deep breath of second hand smoke.

'You're horrible,' she told him.

'I've never claimed otherwise.'

She returned her attention to the papers but it didn't last long. She closed her eyes and kept taking in lungfuls of smoke-tainted air.

'I assume this is your last case?' He said. She got up to open a window, taking in a breath of fresh air.

'Yes. This is it. No more courts, cases or barristers again.'

'What changed?'

'I realised I was being an absolute bitch and decided to stop.'

'Charming,' he drawled.

'When have I ever not been?'

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in an empty coffee mug. She gnawed at her lip with her front teeth, trying to word what she was about to say.

Again, like he was reading her mind, he said, 'I'm not going to tell John.'

She let out a breath. 'Thanks.'

'I believe this is called _the high road_.'

'Let me know what the view is like from there.'

'Boring.'

One corner of her mouth twitched upward, and shook her head. She picked up her papers and shuffled them into a neat pile, placing them down again and staring for a good two minutes at the top page. Then she reached out, grabbed a cigarette and set the end alight as quickly as she could.

'You're horrible,' she moaned again as she closed her eyes in bliss and sunk back into her chair.

'You won't be able to focus if you quit now. Wait until after. I'm quite eager to be free of all this menial work.'

'Just a week,' she told him. 'There won't be a recall. I'm too good for that.'

'Do what it takes,' he said, echoing Mycroft's instructions to her.

'You can put up with me like this for another week?'

'It's of little consequence to me.'

His words smarted, but she ignored it. 'Sherlock?'

His eyes swivelled toward her.

'Do me a favour?'

They narrowed. 'What?

'Quit smoking.'

In reply, he plucked one more smoke from the packet, but left the rest lying there as he exited, a swish of black, tobacco and infuriating appeal.

* * *

**Apologies for the delay. In the midst of exams. Thank you for the continued support!**

**-J**


	14. Chapter 14

She'd forgotten the stress that came hand-in-hand with having a career again, and this was her biggest case against her biggest rival which didn't alleviate any of the tension. As the trial date crept closer and closer she got less and less sleep, smoked more and more cigarettes, drank cup after cup of coffee. She downed aspirin to fight off stress headaches that always came back, she immersed herself in paperwork, she didn't talk to anyone for at least two full days. She was driving her body to exhaustion, isolating herself, and felt like she was fresh out of Oxford again, working so hard against her gender and her family reputation to be noticed, to prove herself.

The night before, she went to bed at ten because it was a family rule that the night before a case, you got a full eight hours of sleep in. But her bed was too cold and too big and her head wouldn't shut up – she kept thinking of how Anthony would trump her and how she would trump his trump and he would trump her trump of his trump, of plans and back up plans and back up back up plans, she kept fretting that John or Sherlock would say something wrong and the whole thing would go to waste. Eventually, she rolled over and checked her phone for the time – square on midnight. Agitated, she sat up, grabbed her blanket and pillow and dragged them upstairs.

Sherlock's eyes flew open as soon as he heard someone enter the flat. Without raising his head, he knew who it was – both because she smelt of tobacco and because he had grown well accustomed to the sound of her footsteps.

'Sherlock?' She asked, voice lost in the dark. 'Do me a favour?'

'What?'

'Ignore me.'

And she crawled into bed beside him, plumping her pillow and spreading her blanket over herself. He rolled over, back to her, feeling the mattress bob up and down as she made herself comfortable.

'You smell like an ashtray,' he commented, voice low. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.

'I know,' she said sombrely. 'But I have nicotine patches downstairs, waiting, after this is over.'

She was silent for a while, but he knew she wasn't asleep. He wasn't either. He wouldn't fall asleep until she did.

'Thanks,' she murmured. He didn't respond. They lay in the quiet, a little awkwardly. She didn't know if it was the foreign smell of his sheets or the way his flat didn't retain the cold or the fact that she couldn't hear water pipes groaning. She didn't know if it was because she could feel the mattress depreciating around his body or the sound of another person beside her or just because it was _him; _but she fell asleep quickly and comfortably. Convinced that she was now unconscious by the routine of her breathing, he closed his own eyes, unsure of whether or not he was irritated that she'd crawled into his bed uninvited.

* * *

When Evie stumbled out of Sherlock's room at six in the morning, looking tired and dishevelled, John almost dropped his coffee mug. Sherlock on the other hand, looked entirely unfazed by the whole thing. She yawned, said good morning, and tottered back downstairs without another word. John turned to Sherlock, tapping away at his laptop, the epitome of nonchalance. For a second he scrabbled for thought. He was supposed to be telling Sherlock something but... this seemed _so_ much more interesting.

'Evie was...' He trailed off.

'What about Genevieve?'

'You spent... the night... together?'

He glanced up at him over his screen, expression bored. 'And?'

'Well,' he swallowed. 'I'm, ah, happy for you?'

At this, he looked at John properly. 'For God's sake,' he snapped, 'we only slept together.'

'Oh. So it's not...'

'Not _what?'_

'A relationship?'

Sherlock scrunched his brow. 'Why would it be a relationship?'

'Well, no reason,' John answered, 'I guess that's, um, up to you two. I mean, she and I, er, did that,' he swallowed. 'That is, without being, you know in a-'

Sherlock, who had been taking a sip of tea, inhaled sharply and the liquid went down the wrong pipe. He coughed harshly, eyes watering.

'Genevieve and I,' he spluttered, 'did not have,' he stalled, then choked out, '_sex_. We _slept_ together, John. _Slept_.'

John didn't know whether to laugh or lapse into mortified silence. He chose the latter, and the roommates finished their breakfasts in uncomfortable quiet.

'Still,' John said as he dumped his dishes into the sink. 'You guys have been spending a lot of time together lately.'

'To ensure she won't lose the case.'

'Right, right.' He bounced on the balls of his feet, swinging his arms by his side, the idea entering his head and making him smile. 'You get along better now, too.'

Sherlock looked up, irritated, but his eyes soon returned to his screen. 'Unnecessary aggravation would only be an inconvenience when living in the same building.'

''Course.' His eyes swept the room innocently. 'She's nice, though.'

'What are you getting at?'

He held his hands up in surrender. 'Nothing,' he answered. 'I'm just saying, you two as a couple wouldn't be a bad idea.'

He snapped the laptop shut and stood, stretching his back. 'If you're done spouting nonsense now, I'm going to get changed.'

He strode across the room and had almost reached the door to his bedroom when John called out, 'Sherlock, wait.'

He stopped and turned around. John was nervous. His hand clenched and unclenched by his side and he took in a deep breath. Sherlock's heart sank.

'I'mmovinginwithMary,' the ex-army doctor blurted. Sherlock appraised him from the doorway, then turned his back.

'If you'd like,' he said, tone clipped, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Evie showered, changed, reviewed and took a cab with Sherlock and John to the courthouse. They didn't speak to each other, but Evie wasn't bothered to enquire after the apparent rift in their relationship, instead briefing and re-briefing them on what they were to say and how they were to react. When they arrived, her stomach was churning and she wished so badly for a cigarette, but Sherlock was the only one who knew she smoked and she was determined to keep it that way.

Inside, she donned her wig and robes, smoothing the creases from the material over and over again. She mentally reviewed her case repeatedly as they sat in their prep room, waiting for the trial to start.

A warm hand reached over and tapped lightly on her knuckle. Sherlock wasn't even looking at her as he did so, and she relaxed her hand, red nail marks glowing on her palm. John covered up his smirk by pretending to cough, but Sherlock glared at him anywhere. Evie ignored them both – but made a point of letting her hand rest laxly on her lap.

When there was ten minutes to go, they entered the courtroom, taking their seats. Evie reviewed her files once more, organising them on her desk.

'How are you feeling, Evie?' John asked. She scanned to room. From his bench, Anthony smirked at her. She smirked back.

'Absolutely fine,' she answered.

* * *

Three hours later, Evie changed from her robes into a skirt and blouse and exited the courthouse, back purposely straight, chin in the air, Sherlock and John following. A cab was already idling, waiting for them.

'Gen,' Anthony called, descending the steps from the ornate front doors. 'Hold on.'

She paused, hand already on the handle of the car door. She turned.

'Well, today was interesting, wasn't it?'

'Very interesting,' she answered.

'I guess I know my place now.'

She flashed a grin. 'And don't forget it again, Tony.'

He laughed, leaning forward. Sherlock and John stood by the side, forgotten. 'Listen, I've got a couple more days left in the city and-'

'Not interested.' She opened the door, casting a look to her friends. 'Coming?'

They rode in silence, and only when they stepped out onto the path outside 221 Baker Street did Evie allow her facade to drop. She spun around, looking ecstatic.

'We won!' She almost squealed. 'We won, we won, we won!'

John ruffled her hair. 'You did great.'

'Wow,' she let out a sigh and laughed. 'I can't believe it. A couple of times there, I thought we'd lost, but then at the end,' she shook her head, then held out her arms. 'We won!'

She stepped forward, collecting both men in her arms and squeezing them tightly. 'We won!' She repeated, voice muffled by their clothes.

'We won!' John agreed, laughing as he hugged her back. Sherlock stood awkwardly as the young woman squeezed his middle. She let go and lead them to the doorway, jabbering on about celebrations. Dinner, she suggested. Somewhere nice.

'Sounds good,' John said. 'Doesn't it Sherlock?'

The detective just hm'd and strode up the stairs. They heard the door to 221b open and then slam shut.

'He'll come,' John assured her.

'Alright. Seven? We'll go Soho?'

'See you at seven – I think Sherlock's got another case.'

She smiled at him, and entered her flat where she slapped two nicotine patches on her arm. Then she fixed herself a proper food, sat down, put on some rubbish telly and relaxed. When she was done she picked up her violin. She was a tad rusty from having not picked up the instrument in a month and a half but despite her ear being slightly off and the notes she forgot, she felt her body mould to the instrument and she closed her eyes. She thought about what Sherlock had said – what she was good at. Could she make a career of her love for music? She'd never thought of it before. She wasn't sure if she could.

When seven drew nearer, she took a shower and dried her hair. Above her, she could hear Sherlock and John moving around upstairs, and assumed they'd returned home while she was showering. She put on a dress, nice and light to suit the warm spring evening, put her hair up and stuck some hoops into her ears as she climbed the stairs.

'You ready?' She called. John emerged into the living room, buttoning up his shirt. He moved to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red from one of the cupboards.

'I am,' he confirmed.

'Sherlock?'

'Here,' he answered, stepping from his room and fixing his cuffs.

Evie clapped her hands together. 'Then off we go,' she said, 'to feast!'

They hadn't made a reservation, but managed to get a table in the corner anyway. Evie was in good spirits, encouraged by her win, relieved that the stress was over and trying not to think about the future. But still she could tell that something was off – John smiled and laugh and Sherlock was Sherlock, but there was still tension between the two that weighed down the evening. Eventually, unable to take it anymore, she put down her menu and folded her arms on the table, eyes flitting between both men.

'Okay,' she said, 'what's the problem?'

'What problem?' John asked innocently enough.

'_Your_ problem. _Sherlock's_ problem. The both of you won't even look at each other. So what's the problem?'

Sherlock snorted, looking purposely bored. John sighed, resting his elbows on the table.

'I'm moving out,' he said.

Evie blinked. 'Oh. When?'

'Two weeks.'

She took breathed in and out, eyebrows raised. 'Well, alright. Live with Mary, I presume?'

'Yeah. We found a nice flat near Brent Park.'

'That's not too far away,' Evie reasoned. 'And, you know, you've been thinking about this for a while. If it makes you happy, I guess.'

John reached across the table and squeezed her hand as Sherlock stood, pocketing his phone.

'Lestrade needs me,' he said bluntly.

John stood. 'Where?'

'Only me,' Sherlock said, stalking out of the restaurant without another word. John watched his friend's retreating back, face worn, eyes sad.

'D'you want me to go talk to him?' Evie offered. Her friend shook his head.

'No,' he answered, 'I should do it. Tonight, when he gets back.'

'If he comes back,' Evie reminded him.

'He will.'

The waiter came and they placed their orders, handing over their menus. The restaurant was warm and cosy and full of good cheer, but John still looked sad.

'He doesn't like change,' Evie said, picking at the tablecloth. 'It doesn't go well with his...'

'Asperger's?' John finished. Evie shrugged, and John sighed again. 'I knew he wouldn't take it well, but Mary and I, we were going to move in back in January, but then...'

'Sherlock came back,' Evie smiled sympathetically. 'You don't have to explain, John. Things had to change sooner or later. I'll miss you though.'

'I'll miss you too.'

'Are you going to stop cases?'

'No. Well, if Sherlock let's me keep going.'

'He will, when he comes around.' Their conversation was put on hold as their food arrived and they dug in. Their conversation got lighter as they ate, talking and joking like they hadn't in a long time. Feeling devilish, they ordered desert as well, a huge helping of cake and ice cream that they ate until they were about to pop.

Outside, the night had gotten colder, and John leant Evie his jacket.

'Baker Street's gonna be lonely without you,' Evie said as they waited for a cab to appear on the street.

'I'll be there often enough,' John assured her. 'And...'

'Yeah?'

'I was hoping you and Sherlock would move in together.'

Evie frowned. 'Why?'

'Well, you get along well, you make sure he eats. Plus, this way you can both save a bit of money.'

She shrugged, flagging down a cab which ignored her as usual. 'Wouldn't be too bad,' she agreed, 'but Sherlock would never want to.'

John waved down the next taxi and for him the car pulled over. John opened the door for her and she climbed in, giving the driver the address.

'Well, we don't have to sort everything now,' Evie said. 'We've got two weeks, right?'

* * *

**In which a lot of things happen.**

**Again, apologies for the delay, but I've finished my exams no so updates should come quicker.**


	15. Chapter 15

Those two weeks passed by quickly, and soon enough the moving truck had arrived to collect John's things. 221B looked deserted without John's belongings scattered about, gutted and pilfered and not right at all. Sherlock sat on the lounge, purposely ignoring everyone and being nothing but a hindrance to the movers, which John apologised countless times for. They'd talked, and Sherlock had come to accept that John moving out was not John abandoning him; but that didn't mean he had to be _happy_ about it.

Mrs Hudson was teary eyed as she hugged her adopted son goodbye.

'Take care of yourself then, dear,' she said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. 'And come back to visit, won't you?'

'I'll be here more often then not,' John assured her, kissing the elderly woman's cheek. 'You'll get sick of me.'

She gave a watery laugh and a little sob and had to excuse herself. Evie stepped forward next, already tearing a little, and held out her arms for John. He laughed as they hugged, her squeezing him tightly.

'Hey, I'll be over all the time,' he murmured.

'I know, I know,' Evie said, wiping at her eyes. 'It's just... you know. The end of an era.' She laughed. 'Remember when I moved in? You were such a grump. Thought I was a reporter.'

John chuckled. 'You made me soup after, too.'

She hugged him again, tighter than before, breathing in his familiar scent. 'I'll miss you.'

'Really, I'll be over all the time.'

Evie smiled, rubbing her eyes, and moved away so John and Sherlock could talk in privacy. She caught snatches of conversation, and the ending of 'text me if something comes up, yeah?' Then they stood awkwardly, before John stuck out his hand and they shook. He cleared his throat, turned on his heel and was out the door in a blink.

Evie made soup that night, feeling sentimental, and brought it up to Sherlock, who was slumped in his armchair, watching telly.

'Dinner, Sherlock? It's soup.'

'Bread, too,' he ordered. She ladled him a bowl and buttered some bread, bringing it to him on the chair. She poured herself a serving, but since John's armchair was gone, there was nowhere to sit, so she plopped herself on the ground, leaning back on Sherlock's armrest. They watched TV in silence, munching on their food.

'Well?' Sherlock said bluntly during an ad break.

'Well what?'

'Are you moving in?'

'What?'

'Are you moving in?'

She twisted around from her position on the floor so she could look at him.

'It makes sense,' he argued, though she hadn't protested. 'I can't afford this place alone, it's a two bedroom and there's a vacancy. Or have you grown fond of your own apartment?' He smiled mockingly. 'What's broken this week? The bathroom cupboard?'

She stirred her soup as she thought. 'Well,' she said slowly.

'Well _what?'_

She hid a smile by eating another spoonful of soup. 'I have conditions.'

Sherlock scoffed, but didn't protest.

'No smoking,' she said. 'No exceptions.'

'I assume that is applicable to you as well?'

'It's _for_ me.'

He thought this over. 'Fine,' he agreed eventually.

'Body parts in the bottom part of the fridge _only_. The bottom two shelves.'

'Three.'

'Two.'

'_Three_.'

'Two,' Evie insisted stubbornly.

'Fine,' he huffed. 'And the freezer?'

'Left half.'

His lips pursed. 'Fine,' he repeated. 'But I have conditions as well.'

'Shoot.'

'No Anthonys.'

She laughed as she slid down into a more comfortable position. 'I can live with that.'

* * *

Of course, when it came to actually moving, things weren't quite as simple. First of all, all her furniture needed to be moved upstairs which wasn't a task that promoted patience. Her lounge had be manoeuvred at the perfect angle to fit up the stairs and through the door, and she had to disassemble her bed and move all the pieces of the frame as well as the mattress. The result was Sherlock giving up in frustration and Evie unable to do it by herself, so she spent the night on his lounge.

The next day, she woke up with a stiff neck and sore legs, but they got the rest of her furniture up. Then Sherlock ran off to solve another crime, leaving her to move the rest of her things by herself. It wasn't so bad – a few boxes full of books, her clothes, her kitchen utensils since Sherlock was sorely lacking. For the rest of the day she arranged her items around 221b, letting parts of her life percolate Sherlock's apartment.

When the consulting detective returned, Evie was curled up on her own armchair, flicking through a magazine. Quickly, he catalogued the changes; the extra pots and pans in the kitchen, books that weren't his own shoved haphazardly in the shelves, the new smell in the air, distinctly feminine. In the bathroom there were several bottles of shampoos and lotions, cluttering up most of the space. And the flat was cleaner. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

'Dinner's in the microwave,' she told him without looking up.

He opened the microwave door and took out the food, flicking the cling wrap from the top and grabbing a fork from the drawer.

'You certainly settled in,' he said, spearing a piece of casserole with his fork.

'Yep. Nicer then downstairs, that's for sure.' Here, she folded her magazine shut and leant forward in her chair. 'Okay, Sherlock,' she said, looking him squarely in the eye, 'time for honesty.'

He raised a brow.

'Are you sure you want me to move in? If you are sure, I'll sign the lease tomorrow.'

'If I say no, must I lug that ridiculous lounge downstairs?'

'Yes.'

'Might as well stay then.'

She smiled and picked her magazine back up. 'Good enough for me.'

* * *

**Oh wow, 100 followers! I'm extremely flattered. Thank so you much for your continued support.**

**-J**


	16. Chapter 16

'He never picks up his laundry, he always takes my laptop, he never lifts a finger to help around the flat, and when I came home on Tuesday there were three men tied up in the corner!'

In his new flat, John lay on the lounge with his feet propped up as Evie's voice rattled through the receiver in bursts of indignant noise. Mary was in the shower and he was lying languidly on the couch trying not to feel bad about the two servings of dinner he'd had and the exercise he hadn't.

'He's a challenge, alright,' John agreed.

'Really,' she sighed down the phone, 'how'd you cope?'

'Patience,' he replied.

'You must be a saint.'

'Well, Mrs Hudson cleaning our flat for us helped,' the ex-army doctor admitted, 'and you cooking our meals, too.'

She laughed. 'You two were spoiled. How's life with Mary now that your gravy train has left the station?'

He grinned. 'Fantastic.'

She tutted. 'Still in the honeymoon phase. You'll hate each other soon enough.'

'And since when did you become a relationship guru?'

'Since I became unemployed and channel ten started doing re-runs of Friends.'

'Well, Mary and I aren't Ross and Rachel. We'll be fine.'

'I know.' He heard her shuffle the phone around, and could imagine her cradling her mobile between her shoulder and ear so she could do some washing up or something. 'I just miss you, that's all.'

'I was there today,' John pointed out. 'I stayed there last night, slept on the couch.'

'It's not the same,' she lamented.

John chuckled. 'I know,' he said, 'but gotta move on eventually, right?'

'I guess.'

Voices arose in the background. Evie pulled the phone away from her mouth, and he caught Sherlock's low baritone. Their exchange was short, and he heard doors opening and shutting. Evie soon returned, letting out a heavy breath through her teeth, reminiscent of a bull.

'What now?' John asked.

'He's expecting a client, asked me to leave the room. Not that I mind,' she added sarcastically, 'I was only cleaning _his_ petri dishes.'

'Why don't you just leave it for Mrs Hudson?'

'I'm not going to make an old lady clean up after me like a maid, John.'

'When you say it like that it sounds bad.'

'It_ is_ bad.' But he could tell that she was smiling.

'Just give him time,' John advised. 'He' just set in his ways, that's all.'

A pause on the other side, then; 'He still calls me John sometimes,' she muttered.

He winced. 'D'you want me to talk to him?'

'No, don't do that. You're not my mother, you don't need to ring up the boy who's being mean to me and yell at him.'

'Well, sometimes someone needs to.'

'I'll be fine.'

'Ok, but just tell me if-' Words failed him. Suddenly, he couldn't remember what they'd been talking about.

'John?'

'Yeah, ah, here, and,' he stuttered.

'What happened?'

He shook his head even though she couldn't see him.

'Did Mary just step out of the shower?' She teased.

'Evie, I've, uh, gotta go.'

On the other end of the line, she rolled her eyes. 'Course,' she said. 'Talk to you later, John.'

* * *

The next day, when Sherlock turned up at his flat he knew there was a case waiting, so he grabbed his keys, scrawled a note for Mary and followed his best friend out the door.

'What's today?' He asked as he ducked his head into the cab after his ex-flat mate.

'A double homicide at Birkbeck University.'

'Ah, a classic,' John said.

Sherlock tapped away on his phone.

'So,' John began as his friend studied the mobile in his hands. 'Evie rang.'

'Fascinating,' Sherlock droned.

'You're not being exactly nice to her, are you?'

He pocketed his phone. 'Did she ask you to talk to me? Seems unlike her.'

'No, she didn't, but I thought I would anyway.'

'I don't know what the problem is,' Sherlock said, slightly miffed. 'I'm treating her no differently.'

'That's the problem – you've _got_ to treat her differently. She's not your maid, Sherlock, she's not an employee. She won't just scamper around in the background, picking up after you forever.'

'Compromise is necessary when living together,' Sherlock stated.

'And what are you compromising?'

No reply.

'Sherlock, do you _want_ her to move out?'

'_No_.'

'Then try to be nicer.' Unable to resist, he added, 'good boy.'

Sherlock's expression promised murder.

* * *

She'd finally bit the bullet.

Law in the past, who knows what in the future, and a present full to the brim with existential dilemmas, she'd taken a deep breath, downed two cups of coffee and applied for a receptionist position at an IT firm; her decorated qualifications had them offering her a position as company-exclusive solicitor but she'd insisted on receptionist. Then yesterday she'd had her training and today her first proper shift, to find that the company was disorganised, the boss rude, the employees sexist and the customers infuriating. She came home to a dirty flat, fell onto the lounge, wanting to just burst into tears and get it all out because she didn't know what she was doing or where she was going and she didn't want to cook dinner and she didn't want to work or be strong or anything stupid like that, she wanted an easy fix and a warm meal and a cuddle.

Her arm was thrown across her eyes so she heard rather then saw Sherlock enter the flat. She didn't dignify him with a greeting, and she didn't want to see what kind of a mess he'd brought home with him.

'You shouldn't leave the door unlocked,' Sherlock disproved.

She mumbled something in return.

'Anatomically impossible,' he replied.

She grit her teeth and sat up, about to go to bed, but there was a white box before her, a pair of disposable chopsticks on top. Sherlock stood by the lounge, offering the aforementioned box and pointedly not making eye contact.

'What's this?' She asked warily.

'Egg noodles,' he answered. She sniffed it.

'Why are you giving it to me? Is it drugged?'

Irritation flashed across his face. '_No_,' he snapped, 'it's not. Do you want it or not?'

She plucked the box from his hands, enjoying the heat that found her palms. The food was oily and warm and delicious and she sighed in bliss.

'Any chance you've got a dream job and a hug there too?' She mumbled through a mouthful of food.

'What?'

'What brought this on?'

'I thought you deserved a break from cooking.'

She blinked I surprise and swallowed. 'Well that's... unexpectedly nice of you.'

He snorted and threw the TV remote at her. 'There. Friends is on.'

She obliged, flicking to ten and settling down into a comfortable slouch, only to almost choke on her food when Sherlock started to stack his beakers.

'Are you _cleaning_?' She asked incredulously.

'Yes.'

'_Why?_' She narrowed her eyes. 'John talked to you, didn't he.'

'He may have brought it to my attention that I have not been a very,' he swallowed, unsure of how to continue, '... accommodating new flatmate, and I could stand to compromise more.'

She almost laughed. 'Well, I didn't ask him to, but thanks. That's really nice of you Sherlock. I appreciate it.'

When he had finished stacking his lab equipment, he grabbed his own meal and perched himself in his armchair, diminishing his food in rapid bites. He was far from the ideal telly-watching mate, never laughing at any of the anecdotes, spouting deductions at the end of every one-liner, but still, as she ate take out and curled up on the couch, Evie felt more at home then ever before.

'This show is rubbish,' he muttered. 'I don't know why you watch it, Genevieve.'

She smiled.


	17. Chapter 17

It happened as Autumn crept into the lives of the London residents. Leaves turned red with fright and fluttered to the ground, every day was just a bit colder then the last, and patterned cardigans and meticulously faded jeans came back into fashion.

They'd settled into routine. Well, as routine as they could be when Sherlock kept such irregular hours. Okay, perhaps it wasn't a routine at all – Evie got up and went to work then came home, getting take out on the way or making some dinner, during which Sherlock and/or John would be there or not. If they were, then afterward they'd go to bed, John on the lounge, or Sherlock would drag John off to some corner of the city for crime solving. If they weren't, she'd have a glass of wine and go to bed, then she'd get up and start all over again.

On this particular day, when she got home, Sherlock was laying on the lounge, facing the ceiling, fingers in that familiar position, the same as always – except his left eye was swollen shut, his lip was split and there was a purple bruise blooming across his right cheek. He looked properly beat up, but showed no difference in his disposition. As calmly as always, his one open eye slid toward her as she entered.

'Holy shit, Sherlock,' she said, dropping her bag by the door and hurrying to the kitchen for the first aid kit. 'What happened?'

'Run in with a bike gang,' he said dismissively.

She returned, white box in hand. 'That looks bad. Did you see a doctor?'

'John was there. He tried to get me to go to a hospital.'

'And why didn't you?' She demanded. He shrugged in response.

She let out a heavy sigh, nudging his legs with her knees. 'Sit up,' she commanded, and he did so. 'Okay. What's the damage? Catalogue it for me.'

'Aside from the obvious facial contusions, I've suffered a sprained left wrist,' he reported, 'grazed knuckles, possible minor concussion.'

'Concussion?' Evie repeated, distressed. 'I don't know how to treat a concussion.'

'It's nothing serious.'

'It's a _concussion_.'

'An ice pack and some sleep will fix it.'

She fetched the ice pack from the freezer and draped it over his head and eye, instructing him to hold it in place. Then, she dabbed some iodine on his lip, and prodded gently at the bruise on his cheek.

'Does it hurt too badly?' She asked softly.

'It's manageable,' he breathed in reply.

She moved closer to tend to his face until she could feel the gentle push of his exhale and see the freckles, so faint, barely noticeable, on his cheeks. She could feel the warmth of his skin and became aware of his height (he was so much taller than her, even hunched and sitting down). She was aware of the way his eyes didn't waver as he watched her take his hand in her own and dab iodine on his knuckles, then gently tested his wrist. He took in a sharp breath.

'Hold on a sec,' she said, moving back to the kitchen to get another ice pack. As soon as she moved away from him she felt colder, and it was both refreshing and unwanted. Being so close to Sherlock was like being near an open flame; any closer and she would burn, any further and she would freeze. She mentally berated herself as she shut the freezer door, trying to push away these unexpected thoughts.

When she returned to him, he'd thrown away the pack that had been pressed to his head, and it lay on the coffee table, moisture condensing rapidly.

'Sherlock!' She chastised.

'I'm _fine_,' he huffed. 'Stop fussing.'

'You're not _fine_, you're _beat up_.' She took her place beside him, and held the pack against his wrist. 'If you don't take care of it now, it's just going to get worse.'

'You're concern is unnecessary.'

'It's completely necessary.'

'It isn't.'

'It _is_.'

'No, it's _not,_' he bickered.

'Well then shut up and humour me, ok?'

He pursed his lips but didn't argue further, and she was allowed to keep tending him in peace.

'You need to be more careful,' she admonished. 'This is the only body you've got.'

'My body doesn't matter,' he said. 'My brain does.'

'Well, you're brain's not going to get you very far if you've had all your limbs hacked off in some stupid fight, is it?'

'Debatable.'

'Look,' she reasoned, 'if you'd just be more careful, then I wouldn't have to worry so much.'

'You don't _have_ to worry,' he argued.

'Yes, I do.'

'No, you don't.'

'I _do_.'

'You _don't._'

'Well, I can't help it.'

'Why not?'

'Why no-? Because you're important, Sherlock.'

And just like that, all the weird thoughts and sudden attention to detail made sense, because she was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

She almost dropped his hand, but forced herself still. She'd heard all about Irene Adler and how Sherlock had been able to deduce her feelings because her body had betrayed her with dilating pupils, racing pulse and blushing skin, so she ducked her head and focused on his wrist, wishing her hair was down so she could hide her face behind it. Sherlock just hm'd, nonplussed, and turned his attention to the telly.

'I'm just going to look up how to treat concussions on the web,' she said, after she'd finished wrapping his wrist. 'I'll be back in a sec.'

'If you'd like,' he drawled in response.

Down in her flat, she logged into her laptop typed _concussion treatment_ into Google and then sat, staring blankly at the search results as she tried to think herself out of the situation she was in, as though she could choose to follow the logical route instead of the emotional one, because having feelings for Sherlock was the furthest thing from reasonable that she could think of. He was an unbelievable pompous arse sometimes, he was insensitive, inconsiderate, downright rude...

And clever, and kind, and more selfless then he was willing to admit. And those flaws brought out his attributes the way salt brings out the sweetness in pastries, made him seem all the better for it, made him Sherlock.

It'd been there all along, she realised, a work-in-progress since he'd come back from the dead. Every time he displayed his intellect, every time he showed her some small kindness, paid her attention, complimented her in that back-hand way of his, she inched a bit closer, like a painting filled in a little at a time, and now here she was, _in love_, a full blown Monet masterpiece.

She shook her head, clicked the first webpage, got her information, and returned upstairs where Sherlock was not to be seen.

She knocked on his bedroom door. 'Sherlock?'

He mumbled something in reply, and she entered. He hadn't changed from his clothes, still wearing trousers and a button-down as he lay on his bed facing the ceiling.

'What?' He barked.

'You can go to sleep, but I've got to wake you every fifteen minutes for the next two hours, then every half hour for the two hours after that, then hourly.'

'_Must_ you?' He snapped.

She rolled her eyes. 'Just do this for me. Please?'

He sighed and rolled over, and she went to sit by his bed. He fell asleep quickly as she studied him, feeling bad for doing so but not bad enough to stop. He looked peaceful, despite his bashed-up face, the bruises matching his dark sheets and drawing attention to his pale face. She was tempted to reach over and sweep the hair out of his eyes, but didn't dare risk it, because she knew he would wake, and then it would be unbelievably awkward, and he would know - and that was when she had her second realisation of the day; that Sherlock would never return the sentiment. That she was stuck with this unrequited affection that he would no doubt soon uncover, and there wasn't a single fucking thing she could do about it.

She was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

God fucking damnit.

* * *

**I'm not sure if I'm happy with this chapter, but I'm sick of re-writing it. Thank you again for being so wonderful.**

**-J**


	18. Chapter 18

She left him sleeping the next morning, got ready for work as quietly as she could and was out the door, yawning widely, coffee not yet doing it's job. She flagged down a cab, directed the driver to her work, and pulled out her mobile, dialling John. It rang and rang and rang and she was about to hang up, when a yawning voice answered;

'Hello?'

'Morning John,' she greeted, 'how are you?'

'Tired,' he replied grouchily.

'Sorry about waking you, I just wanted to check on how you were. Sherlock was pretty beat up when he got home last night.'

John sighed. 'He wouldn't go to the hospital, the prick. The only reason I let him go home was because I knew you'd take care of him. How is he?'

'Fine. Sleeping.'

'Did you take care of his concussion?'

'Yeah.'

'Thanks, Evie.'

'No problem.' She paused, gnawing over whether or not to tell him, but just as she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off.

'Hey, can I tell you something?'

'Anything, slick.'

She heard him swallow. 'I'm going to propose to Mary.'

A smile spread across her face and she sat up straight in the cab seat. 'Really?'

'Yeah,' John affirmed, sounding equal parts anxious and excited. 'I'm taking her out to dinner on Friday night, her favourite restaurant.' The anxiety in his tone crept over the happiness. 'D'you think she'll say yes?'

'Of course she will! John, that's fantastic. You're going to get _married_!'

'Slow down there, she hasn't said yes yet.'

'She will, I know- Oh, got to go, just arrived at work.'

'Have a good day.'

'You too,' she grinned and hung up, own feelings forgotten in the tide of good news.

* * *

He woke with an aching body, but got up without even a grimace, despite the fact that nobody was around to buy his facade. There was a note on the fridge, Genevieve's handwriting, saying she had gone to work - though he didn't know why she bothered writing it down when it was _obvious_ where she'd gone. She'd also included "ring me if you start feeling ill," which he ignored.

He made himself a cup of coffee and went to the lounge, kicking aside Genevieve's blanket and realising she must have slept there last night so she wouldn't have to go far to keep waking Sherlock up. He also realised that even though he'd had to be woken an ungodly amount of times last night, Genevieve had had to do the waking, and then go to work. Although it had been entirely unnecessary, he found himself grateful for the sentiment.

_Ridiculous,_ he scoffed to himself.

For the rest of the day he sat on that lounge, unmoving, unable to muster the energy to do anything else. He was in great discomfort, but refused to get up and seek any painkillers, out of pride, laziness or the fear of a slippery slope, who knows. He just sat there, disconnecting his brain from his body, cleaning up his mind palace as one would a computer, finding useless files and deleting them, letting them disappear into cyberspace. Some celebrity had been fined for substance abuse. Delete. Activists were protesting a company downtown. Keep. Genevieve liked her tea with honey. Delete. He'd used the last of the sugar in his coffee. Delete.

She came through the door at 5.30, sighing loudly, take out swinging in a bag form her hand – Thai, by the smell of it.

She smiled tiredly when she saw him. 'Hey,' she greeted. 'How are you feeling?'

'Fine,' he sighed.

'Need anything?'

He looked up. 'Is that Thai?'

She held it out. 'Chicken and vermicelli salad and a pad thai. Knock yourself out, I'm going to have a cuppa and then I'm off to bed.'

'We're out of honey,' Sherlock intoned as he opened the container and breathed in the aromas.

Fine, she'd use sugar.

'We're out of sugar too.'

She sighed, long and exasperated. Tea was the only true remedy for a long day at work, tea made perfectly, and here she was, without. 'Fine,' she huffed, deciding to forgo the tea. 'Goodnight, Sherlock.'

He didn't reply.

* * *

There were two benefits to going to bed at six o'clock in the evening. One, was that she was extremely tired. Two, was that she could minimise the time she spent with Sherlock. But lying in bed, neither benefit made themselves felt as thoughts of the consulting detective chased away any chance at rest. She wrapped herself in her duvet and mulled her problem over, phrasing it as practically as she could. Objective: Prevent Sherlock from deducing her feelings. Obstacle to objective: Sherlock's heightened observational skills. Course of action: ? She was a good actor, she knew, but she couldn't control everything – eventually, he would deduce her feelings because she wouldn't be able to keep her breathing even or stop the blood rushing to her face or her pupils would dilate, wanting to take in as much of him as she could. And then what would happen?

The alternative was moving out, never seeing him again, become a spinster some place far away - well, perhaps not that extreme, but she knew that it would be next to impossible to get over him while they were still living in the same apartment. She'd seen enough episodes of _Friends_ to know that. But she didn't _want_ to move out – she liked being his friend, she liked seeing Mrs Hudson every day, she liked the location, the price. And as she chewed over this, she thought about how she didn't have a career either, how she was creeping uncomfortably close to thirty, how she could count the number of friends she had on one hand, how she was in love with a man who would never reciprocate her feelings.

She shoved her face into her pillow, grinding her teeth in frustration, and lay there until, finally, she fell asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

She woke up at half past three, and found it impossible to get back to sleep no matter how much she wanted to. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling of her room, remembering when it used to be John's and how she'd lain there with him – and then shook the thought loose because she was friends with his girlfriend now and it was weird. She could feel her problems lurking at the edge of her thoughts, held at bay by a thin piece of determination as she tried to think of anything else at all, but they burst forth and she felt as though she were drowning. She wanted her stress to go away, she wanted her feelings for Sherlock to vanish and for a purpose for her life to appear, she wanted all to be right in her world, for everything to be fixed in a snap of fingers, but she was all out of magic spells and didn't dare touch a cigarette, so settled for the pint of ice cream she'd hid in the freezer.

She crept out into the kitchen and tried not to think of how doughy she was getting as the first spoonful touched her mouth. All the weight she'd lost chain smoking and consuming nothing but coffee and fancy cocktails came running back to her like eager, unflattering puppies once she'd pulled herself together. She could add that to her pity-list too, she thought, followed by when did I become so petty? She muttered to herself as she scooped spoon after spoon of cookies 'n cream into her mouth.

The light flickered on and she jumped, spoon clattering to the ground.

'You'll gain more weight if you eat ice cream in the middle of the night,' Sherlock said flatly.

'That's nice,' she grumbled, picking up her spoon and tossing it into the sink. She got another from the drawer, acutely aware that she was in her sweat pants and some five dollar shirt, no bra, no make up, hair unbrushed. 'What are you doing up?'

'I'm not tired,' he answered simply.

'Me neither.' She scooped up another chunk of ice cream and considered it, thinking about Sherlock's words, remembering a time when his opinion didn't matter and she could eat whatever she damn well pleased.

_Fuck it_, she thought, and she shoved the delicious treat into her mouth, sighing with pleasure. She gathered more ice cream on her spoon and it was halfway to her mouth when it was plucked from her hand and the silver handle was dangling from between Sherlock's grinning lips. She smiled at him and got a third spoon from the drawer.

His eyes studied her in the dim kitchen lighting and she didn't raise her own from the ice cream tub, stabbing the now half-melted mass of sugar with her utensil.

'Something's wrong,' he announced.

'Hm?'

'With you. Something's wrong with you. Something's changed.'

She licked some ice cream from her spoon. 'What makes you say that?'

'You're less direct. Less confident. You won't make eye contact. Did something happened?' His eyes narrowed. 'Have you been hurt in some way?'

She couldn't pretend that his concern didn't please her, but she fought off a smile. 'No, nothing...' She was going to say _bad happened, _but she wouldn't call falling for Sherlock _not bad_, so she settled with, 'happened.'

His lips pursed. 'You're lying.'

Her face twisted into a scowl, but still she wouldn't look at him. 'I'm _fine_.'

He grabbed her wrist. 'Then why won't you _look_ at me?' He demanded.

'Sherlock, let go.'

He didn't. He grabbed her chin and forced her eyes up to meet his.

'Genevieve,' he said. She stared him right in the eye, jaw grit, exerting her will over her body as if she could control her natural reactions. She evened her breathing, but the rest – her heartbeat jumping at his touch, the dilation of her pupils as her eyes met his – was beyond her control.

'Oh,' he breathed. She felt his breath brush against her cheek. He moved his hand and pressed his fingers to the inside of her wrist.

'Sherlock,' she warned, and was subsequently ignored.

They stood in silence for a moment, staring at each other, and then he let go of her wrist and chin and his hands dropped to his side as she leant against the counter and heaved a huge sigh. She put the lid back onto the ice cream and plonked it onto the table, leaving her hands free to rub over her face. Her fingers, cold from holding the tub, felt nice and soothing agains her burning cheeks.

'I'm sorry,' he said, haltingly, 'I consider myself married to my work. I'm not interested in a... romantic...' He petered off, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. At another time, she would have laughed because _the_ Sherlock Holmes didn't know what to say - but right now, in the kitchen, unable to stop her breath hitching, his words stung; because although she realistically knew that this had always been the most likely outcome, hope was a hard thing to kill.

'No, it's fine,' she said, voice clipped, words short. 'I didn't expect you to return the feeling.'

He nodded.

'I think I'll go back to bed now. Goodnight, Sherlock.'

Pause.

'Goodnight, Genevieve.'

* * *

He waited a few minutes, before creeping over to her door and pressing his ear against it. She was playing music, but if he strained to her, he would make out the sound of her uneven breaths and her sniffles, and he got this twisting feeling in his stomach. He threw on his coat and left the flat with the soft sound of Elvis drifting behind him.

He cursed himself for ever getting up to talk to her. He didn't like _change_, it didn't sit comfortably with him. It chafed against his skin and grated against his nerves, and because he'd wanted to know what was wrong, because he had been unable to just _leave_ it, change was happening. What a fool's move. And now he'd invited unpredictability into his routine. What would Genevieve do now? He didn't know, and if Sherlock hated anything, it was _not knowing._

He stopped, took his phone out of his pocket, and sent John a text.

_Case. Now._

_-SH_

He looked up to John's window, heard the gentle buzz of a phone set on vibrate, and heard somebody shuffling to get up. Sherlock waited outside the door as John moved around his flat, descended the stairs, and opened the door.

'Sherlock?' His friends replied groggily. His fly was undone and Sherlock could deduce from the angle at which his hair was sticking up that he'd been sleeping on his right side. 'What is it? What case?'

'Lestrade should have something good.'

John levelled the consulting detective with a flat stare. 'Are you saying you woke me up in the middle of the bloody night for a case that doesn't exist? Sherlock, I was sleeping.'

'Sleep is dull.'

'No, Sherlock, sleep is_ essential_.'

'Fine,' Sherlock sulked, 'don't come.'

'Wait,' the doctor called out after him. 'Did something happen?'

'No.'

John squared his shoulders and looked his best friends up and down. 'Yes,' he insisted, 'it did. I can tell.'

'No, you can't.'

'Yes, I can. So are you going to tell me what's wrong, or are you just going to slink off into the night with your coat collar up?'

Sherlock pursed his lips and let a breath out of his nose. 'Genevieve,' he said quietly.

John stepped forward, immediately alert. 'What about her?' He demanded, 'did something happen? Is she okay?'

'She has...' his lips twisted, 'feelings. For me.'

John blinked a few times, then turned his head and folded his arms. 'Sorry? What was that?'

'You heard me,' Sherlock snapped.

'Well that's... unexpected. What about you?'

'What _about_ me?'

'Do you have feelings for her?'

'Of course I don't.'

'Are you sure?'

'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Well, this isn't exactly your... area of expertise.'

Sherlock sniffed, turning away from the veteran, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. 'Of course it's not. I am an expert in areas of consequence. I specialise in subjects that matter.'

'This matters.'

He snorted. 'Ridiculous.'

'I was just suggesting that maybe you wouldn't know the signs.'

'Signs? What signs?'

John smiled smugly in the dark. 'Exactly.'

John was ignored. 'Are you coming?' Sherlock demanded.

'Where?'

'To Lestrade.'

'Yes. In the morning. Now go home. I'll text you when I wake up.'

'Fine,' Sherlock,' sulked. He turned to leave, to be stopped by John's voice.

'And Sherlock,' his best friend added, 'try to be... well, as nice as you can. To her.'

Sherlock paused. Then kept walking, leaving John unsure about whether or not he'd agreed. The ex-doctor shrugged, then sighed, then went back upstairs to where his (hopefully) future wife was waiting.

* * *

Genevieve Blackwood, she decided as she stood in the line at Tesco, was not a coward. Genevieve Blackwood, she reiterated to herself as the cashier scanned her purchases, did not run away. And so Genevieve Blackwood, she resolved as she stood before her front door, would handle this problem head on.

The door was unlocked. As much a Sherlock liked to scold her for leaving the door unlocked when she was home alone, he never heeded his own advice. She schooled her expression into one of casualty, and walked in.

She needn't have bothered. He wasn't home. She let out a huge sigh of relief and dumped her purchases on her bed, promising herself that she'd put them away later. She poured herself a glass of wine, turned on the TV so the silence of the flat wasn't quite so overbearing and flicked through the chinese take away menu she'd placed on the coffee table for occasions such as this.

* * *

When he arrived home, the time almost ten, Genevieve was sprawled across the couch, eyes fixed on the Graham Norton Show, a half smile playing at her lips at the antics of the host. An empty container sat on the table, chopsticks sticking out, and the smell of oil and fats told him that she'd had Chinese for dinner. She was a picture of domestic content, and Sherlock was almost reluctant to interrupt her, lest he see her smile fall at the sight of him. There was something of a knot in his stomach – no, not a knot, he corrected himself. Really more of a kink, nothing major. But he still could not stop running scenarios in his head – that she would yell, that she would cry, and worst of all, that she would leave.

'Don't leave the door unlocked,' he said, sweeping in as though he hadn't stopped moving, as though he hadn't paused at the door to study her in her relaxed state. She jumped at his voice, as she always did. She wasn't very observational as a person – not unless she had the details written in a file before her, at least, and then she was hawk-like in her dissection of the facts. But her lack of attention to her physical surroundings was the reason he insisted that she lock the door when she was home alone. She would be easy pickings for a burglar or something... worse.

'Sherlock,' she said. He hung his coat, watching her from the corner of his eye. 'How was your day?'

'Adequate,' he answered.

'Solve your case?'

'Of course.'

The conversation stuttered to a halt, and awkwardness pervaded the atmosphere, both parties refusing to acknowledge it. Canned laughter filled the space between them, the room awash with the flickering lights from the television screen. Sherlock considered leaving, but John's words stopped him – _be nice_.

'Would you,' he started haltingly, 'like a cup of tea?'

She blinked at him, obviously surprised, and Sherlock cursed ever following John's advice. He should have known better – the man's personal life was a mess.

'Well, do you want one?' He snapped, voice sharp, covering up his inadequacies with anger.

And then, she laughed. He scowled, regretting ever showing any kindness, if it was only going to get him _laughed_ at.

'Sherlock, it's fine,' she assured him. Her voice was without fault, confident and smooth. 'Don't feel bad. Just forget about it. Delete it. Feelings are inconsequential, right? Don't worry about me.'

Although he'd said almost the same thing to John the previous night, the same sentiment delivered in Genevieve's voice, moulded by Genevieve's lips, sounded _wrong_. The unimportance of feelings? That was something that he, Sherlock, thought – not John, and certainly not _her_. She cared. She cared so he didn't have to. He narrowed his eyes at her. Outwardly, she appeared calm. He wanted to approach her, lay his hand on her wrist, see how long and strong her claim would hold, and wondered why he would even want to test that in the first place. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? For it to never have happened. And she was offering him that chance. So he did the logical thing – he took it.

'Well,' he intoned. 'I suppose the matter is settled.'

He strode to his room, swinging the door shut in one smooth motion, cutting off her 'Goodnight Sher-' in a swift _bang_ of wood meeting wood.


	20. Chapter 20

'How's the wedding planning going?' Evie asked, setting the pizza box onto the table. John ripped open the top and swiped a slice, biting into it aggressively.

'Whoa,' she laughed, grabbing a piece for herself. 'Hungry?'

'Mary's got us on a diet, to lose weight before the wedding. Veggies, fruit and grain. I was about to off myself.'

'So that's why you came over as soon as I mentioned pizza,' she smirked.

'I had to go to _eight_ different churches today. _Eight_.' He licked his fingers and reached for another slice. 'Why don't you have to do any of this stuff?'

'I'm just a bridesmaid. _My_ job is to turn up and look pretty. You're the _groom_.'

'Where's the best man?'

'In his room.' She sighed. 'He's ignoring me.'

'I'm sure he's not,' John reassured. 'You know how he is.'

'I _do _know how he is. That's how I know he's ignoring me.' She sighed again. 'Maybe I've made him uncomfortable.'

John shrugged. 'How about you?' He asked softly, kindness written all over his face. 'How are you holding up?'

She smiled at him. 'I'm fine, John,' she promised. 'I'm always fine.'

* * *

October crept around again, marking two years since Evie had moved into 221 Baker Street. Two years since John had come bursting into her dingy flat, beckoned inside by false hope and the sound of her violin. Two years since a pot of soup and half a loaf of bread had allowed for her to make a best friend, since a night at the pub and Yorick's cranial fracture. Almost a year since Sherlock had been awaiting her in her new flat, since she'd been a part of a plot that lead to the capture of Sebastian Moran and the reunion of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. She said as much to Sherlock when he swept into the kitchen, tossing a tea bag into his mug and waiting impatiently for the kettle to boil.

'Sentimental tripe,' he dismissed.

She rolled her eyes. 'I know, I know.'

* * *

Come Christmas, Evie insisted on having everyone over, and Sherlock bore witness (well, witness that wasn't experienced across the street through a pair of binoculars) to Evie's version of Christmas – festive jumpers, novelty mugs, useless trinkets, decorations, decorations, decorations. She hung fairy lights around the windows, tinsel across the mantel, a huge, real, tree dominated an entire corner of the living room. Every time Sherlock entered the room he would snort and make some kind of passing remark about the uselessness, the redundancy, the frivolousness. She shrugged it off. She was just glad he was talking to her normally again.

On Christmas Eve, Mary, John, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade attended dinner at 221b Baker Street. Evie made a whole Turkey, potatoes, vegetables, did not cut a single corner. Outside, snow fell heavily onto the London streets, providing the illusion of cleanliness. Inside, the fire was roaring, wine was being consumed in great quantities, gifts fished out from under the tree and handed around.

She ended up perched on the arm of Sherlock's seat as the man himself scowled. In her hands, neatly wrapped, was a gift.

'Having a good night?' She asked.

'This domestic...' his lip curled like the rest of the sentence was too repugnant to even say. 'I don't know how you people bare it.'

She nudged him. 'I know you're having fun.'

'Do you?'

'You haven't stormed out yet, _or_ deduced anyone's presents, so you can't be that miserable.'

The little quirk of his lips almost made her melt.

'Here,' she said, handing him the gift. Before it even touches his hand -

'A sca-'

'Scarf, yes, I know you know. Anyone ever told you that you're impossible to shop for?'

He stood, stretching out his legs. 'I didn't get you anything,' he told her, flatly.

'I didn't expect you to.'

In a few short strides he was out of the room.

* * *

Some days, she just had to be out of the flat and away from him.

If these days came when she wasn't working, she'd ring up Mary, John or Molly, or drop by Mrs Hudson's. If, for some reason, all four were busy, she'd go out by herself and sit in a cafe with a book, feeling miserable that her list of friends was so short and easy to exhaust.

* * *

It was a practical blizzard outside when Evie awoke early in January. She buried herself into her blankets and tried to put off the thought of getting up. Her alarm blared at her, anxious and angry. Today, she thought sourly to herself, she deserved to sleep in, in the warmth and comfort of her own bed. She wished for _someone _to bring her tea and toast in bed and ring up her work for her, saying she was sick so they could stay in bed together, watching rubbish telly and eating junk food. But, she supposed, if _someone_ were to do that, it wouldn't be like _someone_ at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut, counted down from three and burst from her covers, practically sprinting to the shower where she greeted the hot stream of water with gratitude. She showered for the fifteen minutes she'd allowed herself, gave her hair a rough towel-dry and bundled herself into her fluffy dressing gown and slippers. When she opened the bathroom door, steam spilling out behind her, Sherlock was already up, applying rosin to his bow in slow, steady strokes.

'Morning,' she yawned, moving to her room where she got changed, brushed her hair, grabbed Sherlock's present, then back to the bathroom for her make up. She fixed herself some coffee, and sat down, handing the gift to him.

'Happy birthday, Sherlock,' she said. He took it, held it up, inspecting it from all angles, then ripped off the wrapping paper, revealing a smooth black case. He opened it, and clean, shining surgical tools gleamed up at him.

'And you, Genevieve,' he responded, tossing her the block of rosin he'd been using. She smiled, catching it. She'd dropped hers the other day, shattering into amber pieces across the floor.

Of course he'd noticed. He always did.

* * *

As February dawned and the weather grew fouler, the criminal classes seemed to be on leave from their underhanded professions. As such, Sherlock suffered. And, Evie discovered, so did she.

'Where have they gone?' Her roommate demanded.

'They haven't _gone_ anywhere,' she answered hotly. 'They were never here. You _know _I don't keep cigarettes in the flat.'

'Yes, you do,' his eyes flashed. 'There's a pack. There's a pack here, somewhere, and I know, because it's _my_ pack! And _you've_ hidden it!'

'Fine!' She threw up her hands in exasperation. 'Yes! I found your pack, and you know what I did? I _threw it away.'_

_'_No, you didn't!' He argued. 'You kept it. You kept it because you couldn't bear to throw them away. Where are they?' He pounced onto the coffee table, shoving aside a stack of papers that she had painstakingly alphabetised for work. They flew like a flurry of snow, mimicking the weather outside. She sighed and sat down.

'Sherlock,' she said, 'they're not here!'

'Tell me where they are!' He all but roared, scrambling to the mantelpiece and picking up Yorick, turning him upside down and scanning his empty skull with keen eyes. He dropped the skull and Yorick hit the carpet, rolling around.

'Genevieve,' he practically whimpered. 'Please.'

'I tossed them. I swear.'

His long legs delivered him before her. He leant down, a hand on either arm rest, his face not even a foot from hers. His eyes drilled into her own, and she knew what he was seeing – everything that had given her away in the first place, her pupils, cheeks, wrists. She could feel his warmth, smell his shampoo, feel his breath as he murmured -

'Genevieve.' His eyes wondered down to her lips then back to her eyes and she wanted to throttle him because he _knew_ what he was doing to her, but she also wanted to just jump his bones because he was downright... _seductive_. '_Please.'_

He wants to play that game? Fine. She can play that game. She leans forward in her chair, slides her hand inside his jacket, brushes her lips, very barely against his cheek, and whispers, as huskily as she can manage, 'Sherlock Holmes, _I threw them out._'

Then she pushed him to the side and stalked away, calling back, 'I hope you didn't try that with John.'

* * *

She was woken up in the middle of a frigid February night by the sound of coughing. She was happy enough to ignore this and go back to sleep, but the sound persisted, so she sighed, bundled herself up and walked over to Sherlock's room.

She knocked. 'Sherlock? Are you okay?'

More coughing.

When she opened the door, sprawled across the bed was a very ill looking Sherlock Holmes. He was lying on his side, coughs racking his body, his sheets twisted around him.

'Go away,' he wheezed. She ignored him, walking to his side and laying a hand on his clammy forehead to find that he was burning.

'What've you done now,' she sighed.

'Nothing. I'm fine.'

'You're burning up, you dunce. Wait here.'

She flicked on his light as she left, put the kettle on, fetched the thermometer from the first aid kit, grabbed some blankets from the cupboard and returned to the room. He was curled up, looking miserable, eyes sliding toward her as she entered.

'Go on,' he growled at her. 'I know you're dying to say it.'

'This is what happens,' she obliged, 'when you don't take care of yourself.' She waved the thermometer before him and grouchily, he opened his mouth so she could stick it in. 'You don't eat regular meals or sleep nearly enough,' she added, picking up the duvet he'd kicked to the floor and spreading it over him, then adding the extra blankets on top. 'And that's why your immune system is shot. Frankly, I'm surprised you're not sick every other week.'

He mumbled something around the thermometer, but she felt like it wouldn't be anything flattering, so she didn't inquire after it. She heard the kettle scream and left him for a moment. She put a generous amount of honey and lemon in his tea, wet a towel, and plonked the steaming mug on his bedside table, whipping the thermometer from his mouth and tutting at the reading.

'Bed rest tomorrow,' she instructed. She sat on his bed and lay the cool towel on his forehead.

He sat up, tossing it away and picking up his tea. 'No,' he said simply.

'Yes.'

'Shan't.'

'Shall.'

'Sherlock, you're sick.'

'You're not a doctor,' he dismissed.

'Then would you like me to ring John? Or should I get Mrs Hudson up here? I'm sure she'd love to fuss over you.'

She would point out that he was pouting, if she knew he wouldn't snap at her for it. Instead, she handed him his tea and draped the towel across his head. Then, she stood and yawned, pulling her arms over her head and stretching until her back gave a soft _pop._

'Wake me if you need me,' she said, flicking off the light and closing the door with a _thunk_ as she left.

* * *

He knew he was still sick when he woke up. His cold sweats, sore throat, constant cough, aching muscles. But that wasn't going to stop him from getting up and going out. Spending all day, lying about the flat? He couldn't bear the thought. And it's not like anybody was going to stop him. Genevieve had gone to work, after all. So he got up, got dressed, and as soon as he opened his bedroom door, he was greeted by the sight of his flatmate sitting before the fire, fingers steepled beneath her chin.

'Going somewhere?' She asked, eyebrow raised.

'Aren't you supposed to be at work?' He rasped.

'Can't,' she gave a small, fake, cough. 'Sick. Now, back to bed. Rest.'

'Rest,' he spat contemptuously, 'is _boring_.'

'Too bad.'

He snorted, shook his head, and started toward the door. She just tutted as he opened the door and swung it shut behind him.

* * *

He regretted going out. Not that he'd ever _admit _it, of course. He'd sooner throw himself off the roof of Bart's again than admit it. He was miserable as he walked through the door, too tired to even brush the snow from his shoulders, and collapsed onto the lounge where, thankfully, he was well exposed to the heat of the roaring fire. The snow on his coat started to melt, seeping to touch his frozen skin but he was too tired to take it off.

Genevieve didn't say a word, though he knew that, were he to look up, she would give him a very pointed _I-told-you-so _look. But she kept her lips shut as she took off his scarf (the one she'd gotten him) for him and his coat, shaking the snow off before hanging it up, throwing a blanket over him and asking -

'Think you can handle some soup?'

He mumbled a reply, which he knew she couldn't understand, but she brought him some soup anyway so he supposed she'd just taken a guess and gotten it right. He sat up, wrapping his hands around the bowl as she turned on the telly. Mindless chatter filled the room as he wolfed down the meal.

'Well,' she stretched out the syllable. 'I'd hate to say that I was right...'

His hand flew to his stomach and his cheeks bulged. 'I think I'm going to be sick,' he gagged.

She flew to her feet, ready to help him to the bathroom, but as soon as she came close enough to lay hands on him, he dropped the act and fixed her with a sardonic eye. '...if you keep talking.'

She scowled at him, retiring to her own seat. 'Honestly,' he muttered, 'I don't know why I bother.'

'You care for me,' he said simply.

'Lords knows why.'

'Because you're in love with me,' he stated.

That he could say it so simply, without a thought to her feelings, showed that, when it came to relationships or emotions, he was almost child-like in his ignorance. She closed her eyes, rubbing her hand across her face. 'I thought we were going to forget about that.'

He shrugged, and when she stood he knew he'd done something _not good_. She didn't even say goodnight, just walked into her bedroom and closed the door. He glared at the shut door, then stood up, throwing his blanket off and storming into the kitchen to dump his bowl into the sink.

But when he entered his own room, he started to feel a twinge in his gut, because she'd plugged in the heater to warm the place up before he arrived. And when he peeled back the covers of his newly made bed, two hot water bottles ensured that he wouldn't have to spend a good fifteen minutes shivering before his own body heat warmed the space between his blankets and mattress.


End file.
